









































































































































































































































LAY OF T H 

% 

WITH 

A TRANSLATION OF THE POEM, 

AND 

AN ANALYSIS OF THE OUTLINES, etc. 



E BELL, 



BY 

E. B. IMPE Y, ESQ. 

» 


SECOND EDITION. 

IN GERMAN AND ENGLISH. 



PUBLISHED BY SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, AND Co.; AND DAVID BATTEN, CLAPHAM. 

1842 . 













































a 


aa : 


as® 

sfl 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


The translation of Schiller’s celebrated Cict t'on ter QKocfc, now presented 
to the public in a new typographical garb, formed part of a prior work, in 
two 12mo. volumes, entitled “ Illustrations of German Poetry.” 

The Editor is encouraged to this second undertaking, partly by the attention 
with which the first has been favoured, and partly by the assurance of critics, on 
whose judgment he relies, that the alterations and supplements herein contained 
will justify the republication. 

They consist chiefly of a careful revision of the version itself, as well as 
the notes and prefatory matter; a copy of the original German poem, printed 


in parallel columns with the translation ; and the insertion of the admired 
engravings by Maurice Retzsch. 

These additions were suggested as desiderata in the first editiou; the one a* 
a requisite test of the Translator’s fidelity, the other as an indispensable accom¬ 
paniment to his Analysis of the Outlines. 

Both are now annexed, in compliance with the demands of an extensive 
circulation, and in the hope that they may be found equally useful to students, 
and acceptable to the general reader and admirer of graphic art. 


5L. 
































PREFACE 


Madame de Stael, in her account of German literature, gives an epitome of 
the Lay of the Bell, as one of the most striking specimens of Schiller’s style: this 
epitome, while it affords ample authority for the Translator’s claim to indulgence 
in the execution of a difficult task, may serve, at the same time, to recommend it 
to notice more agreeably than by any other mode of introduction. These are 
her words : 

La piece de vers intitulee “ La C'lochc ” consiste en deux parties parfaitement 
distinctes: les strophes cn refrain expriment le travail qui se fait dans la forge, 
et entre chacune de ccs strophes il y a des vers ravissants sur les circonstances 
solcnncllcs, ou sur les cvencments extraordinaircs annonecs par les cloches, tels 
que la naissaucc, lc manage, la mort, l’incendie, la revoltc, &c. On pourrait 


traduire en Franfais les pensees fortes, les images belles et toucliantcs qu’in- 
spirent it Schiller les grandes epoques de la destince humainc; mais il est 
impossible d’imiter noblement les strophes en petits vers et composdes de mots 
dont le son bizarre et precipite semble faire entendre les coups redoubles et 
les pas rapides des ouvriers qui dirigent la lave bridante de Tairaiu. Peut-on 
avoir 1’idec d’uu poeme de ce genre par une traduction cn prose ? e’est lire la 
musique au lieu de l’entendre; encore est-il plus aise de se figurcr, par l’imaginn- 
tion, 1’effet des instruments qu’on commit, que les accords et les contrastcs d'un 
rbytlime et d’une langucqu'on ignore. Tantot la bricvetc regulierc du metre fait 
sentir l’activitc des forgerons, l'cncrgic bornec, mais continue, qui s’excrcc dans 
les occupations matcrielles ; et tantot, ii cote de ce bruit dur et fort, Ton entend 
les chants aeriens de l’enthousiasme et de la nu-lnncolic. 




















After duly considering these peculiarities, it remains, in conclusion, only to 
make a few remarks, generally applicable to the method of translation here 
adopted, relative to which Pope’s sensible rule should he kept in view: 

In every work regard the writer’s end, 

Since none can compass more than they intend. 

Without fatiguing the reader with that vexata questio, the comparative merits 
of a free and literal translation ; still less pretending to develop a theory in 
which there is little or nothing new since Dryden’s preface to his Fables, or at 
least since the dissertations on metre and metrical versions dispersed throughout 
the works of Southey and Coleridge, it will be quite enough to state the present 
object, and the means by which it has been endeavoured to effect it. 

The design, then, is, like that of every considerate reformer, to pursue a 
middle course between the ultra-liberal and the ultra-conservative , to conform 
with all reasonable demands at the proper time and place, and, as it were, 
by a politic plan of conciliation to make whatever sacrifice the nature of 
the work may exact, yet cautiously and deliberately, without either encroaching 
upon the limits, or contracting the scope of its fundamental constitution. To 
drop the metaphor, this has been attempted, not by a version word for word, 
or line by line, hut by an adherence, as strict as possible, to the rhythm, pause, 
and cadence of the several metres, preserving at the same time the essential 
meaning of every phrase, whether amplified or comprest, sometimes by 
periphrasis, and sometimes by the substitution of an equivalent word or idea 
for one which might appear less animated or graceful if literally translated— 
the system of “ compensation,” as it has been appropriately called. By these 


means it is proposed to communicate to the ear, as well as to the mind, a just 
conception, not only of the thought and structure, but, if the expression may 
be allowed, the very tune of this lyrical composition, so that it might almost 
be sung to the same air, or chanted to the same recitative as the original. To 
exemplify this method by comparison with a sister art, it may he allowable 
to observe, that it is by principles analogous to these that the skilful musician 
adapts words to a new or foreign melody, not, as it is to often practised, by 
constraining them within the compass of notes unequal in time and punctuation, 

With Midas ear committing short and long- 

hut by adjusting one to the other, so that both may fall with proper ictus, bar 
by bar, within the same measure; a result which cannot be better exemplified 
than by that nice adaptation of sound and sentiment which stamps the genius, 
and breathes in every note of the melodies of Moore. 

It has been long since observed, and later commentators have added nothing 
to the maxim, that a translator should aim at no less than what his author 
might be imagined as capable of effecting, had he written in the same language : 
and doubtless, the greatest success has crowned the efforts of those who have 
proposed to themselves this highest possible standard of excellence. 

That it is quite possible to produce these effects in a language like ours, 
possessing every qualification for the purpose in a copiousness which yields to 
none, and in a nature sufficiently masculine, yet plastic to every foreign form of 
composition, ancient or modern, cannot be doubted by those who are awai’e 
of the miracles achieved by our earlier translators, from Gawin Douglas to 
Chapman, Fairfax, Dryden, and Pope. Nor are there wanting many of our own 




















age, and that immediately preceding it, who, thougli occasionally varying from 
the letter, yet retaining the spirit, have worn, and continue to wear the mantle 
of their immortal prototypes. With these masterly examples, and with a 
literature redundant in every metrical resource, it may well he disputed with 
those critics, who, arguing in favour of translations of verse into prose, have 
affirmed the necessity of either sacrificing sense to metre, or metre to sense, 
whether any such necessity really exists. 

The present Translator is not vain enough to trust the issue of this question 
to the precarious test of his own endeavours, though it would be mere affectation 
to deny that he is willing to hazard some reputation on the experiment. 


That he has been anticipated in his attempt to do justice to this masterpiece 
of Schiller’s muse, has stimulated rather than discouraged him from a contest 
with more than one eminent competitor; for, whoever may ultimately win the 
prize, to have run the same race will be alike creditable to all: and whatever else 
may be the success of this volume, no inconsiderable end will be attained, 
if by some novelty in its arrangement, and some additional information derivable 
from its contents, a little more shall have been contributed towards the better 
understanding and juster appreciation by English readers of a work which, 
considered as one of the most admired samples of German literature, deserves 
the fullest investigation. 






































r - ---- *—^ ' 

-:- - fg& 

THE 

LAY OF THE BELL. 

— 

VIVOS VOCO. MORTUOS PLANGO. FULGURA FRANGO. 

• ‘ jr ' 

gejl gemauert in ber <5rben 

Lo ! the mould of well-baked clay, 

0teljt fcte $orm, au$ Sefjm gebramtt. 

Close immured, on earth doth stand ! 

£cute mup bte ©focfe werben! 

Up ! we cast the bell to day: 

Srifcfj, ©efeflett, fepb jut Ipattb! 

Up ! my comrades, lay to hand. 

23on ber 0ttrtte f>etf 

On the brow of toil 

Stinnett mup ber 0cpweip, 

Must the sweat-drops boil, 

0oC bae SBerf ben SEftetfler foben; 

Would we prove our mastery; — 

Doc$ ber 0egen fomrnt non Dben. 

But the blessing ’s from on high. 

3um 2Berfe, baet toix errtfl bcreiten, 

The work with earnest care beginning, 

©cjiemt fief) rooljl cm ernfleS 2Bort; 

’Tis meet that earnest words attend; 

2Benn gute Sicbcn fie begleitcn, 

That gentle speech, on labour winning, 

Dann ftiept bie 21rbett muntcr fort 

May speed it to a cheerful end. 

0o iapt unb jc$t nut Jfeip betradjtcn, 

Then ply with heed and pious warning 

2Ba$ burd) bie fd>roac§e ftraft cntfpringt; 

What man’s mere strength would bring to nought : 

Den fcf>led)ten SDtann mup man ocradjtcn, 

The losel earns no meed, but scorning. 

Der nie bebadjt, road cr ooflbringt. 

Who recks not what his hands have wrought. 

Da6 ift’b ja, wad ben TOcnfdjcn jicrct, 

For this was man with reason gifted, 

Unb baju warb t^m ber SBcrflanb, 

That he might search and understand; 

Dap cr im inncrn Ipcrjcn fpiirct, 

Then most adorned, when, heaven-ward lifted, 

2Ba$ cr erfcfjafft mit fcincr &anb. 

The heart directs the labouring hand. 

11 

IS 

tflH= - ^- - -------- ~ - , 

8 




























2 


9fe|mtet $ofg »om gt$tenjlamme, 

2 ) 0 $ ve$t frocfett laft eg feiptt, 

©af? bte etngeprefite gfamme 
©$fage gu bom @$waf$ fn'ttetn! 

$o$t beg $upferg 23ret: 

©$ttefl bag 3tnn Iterbet! 

©af bte gc$e ©focfettfpetfe 
gftefe tta$ bet re$fett 2Betfe. 

Piles of seasoned pine-brands rear, 

Till the flame, through froth and foam, 

Self-concentered, sharp, and sheer, 

To the smouldering flue strikes home. 

In the coppery broth 

Let the white tin froth, 

That the plastic ore may swell 

To a right well-metalled bell. 

2Bag t'n beg ©arnmeg tt'efet @rube 
©to £anb mtt geuerg £uffe taut, 
auf beg ©Ijuntteg ©lotfettjMe,, 

©a wtrb eg oon ititg geugett laut. 

9^0$ bauerit wt'rb’g tit fpatett ©agen 

Uttb ritfjrett otelet 2Jtettf$ett ©Ijr 

Hub ttn'rb mtt bem S3etritbtett flagert 

Itttb jttmmen gu ber 2fnba$t (££or. 

2Bag uttfett tt'ef bem (£rbett|t$tie 
©ag we$fefttbe 23erf)dttgtttji brtttgt, 

©ag f$lagt att bte metaflne $rotte, 

©te eg erbauft$ wetter flt'ttgk 

By dint of hand and fire-craft, 

High above its earthy bed. 

From the church-tower shall it waft 

Tidings of the quick and dead; 

To generations yet unborn 

Shall witness of our works; and share 

Affliction with the heart forlorn, 

Or wake the sinful soul to prayer. 

Whate’er the wayward Fates provide, 

Of change and chance, of weal or woe, 

The brazen mouth shall herald wide, 

And moralize to man below. 

28etfte 23fafett fetj’ t$ fprtttgettt 

9Bof)t! bte SO?affert ftttb trn §fup. 

Sajjt’g mtt 2tf$enfa(g bttr$brtngen, 

©ag befotbert f$tteC ben @uf. 

2tu$ oorn ©$aunte ran 

9)tu£ bte 2fltf$itng fe^tt, 

©aft oom m'nlt$ett SWetaCe 
fltetn unb oott bte ©ttmme f$atte. 

White the bubbles rise and rush— 

Hold ! to haste the mingled flow, 

Pour the potash, ere it gush, 

Searching all, above, below; 

That nor flaw nor 'pore 

Mar the drossless ore; 

But full and clear the mellow sound 

From the metal pure rebound. 

©enn mtt bet gm^e ^eterflange 

Segru^t fte bag gettcbte $tttb 

Hark! how the solemn peal is ringing, 

To hail the babe, that listlessly 



















2fuf femes SefcenS erfiem ©attge, 

Den eS tn ©cpfafeS 2fnn begtnnt; 

3pnt rupen nocp tm 3ettenfcpope 
Die fcpttarjen unb bie petterrt ?ofe; 

Der 3??utterltebe jarte ©orgen 
33ett>acpen feinen gofbnen Morgen— 

Die 3apre ffie^ert pfeifgefcpunnb. 

SSom Sftabcpen retpf ftc^ ftofj ber $nabe, 
C£r firurmt mS ?eben ttn'Ib ptnau$, 
Durcpmtpf bie 23eft am 23anber{labe, 
gremb feprt er peim tnS 23aterpaug; 

Unb perrficp, tn ber 3u<jenb ^rangen, 
2Bte ein ©ebifb auo £itntnefcpbpn, 

2D?t't jiicptigen, cerfcpdmten 2Bangen 
©te^t er bte Jungfrau cor ficp ftepn. 

Da fapt etn nantenfofeS ©epnen 
Deb ^iinflb'ngS iperj, er irrt aflein, 

2fub feinen 2fugen brecpen Dpranen, 

(5r fliept ber 23ruber totfben 9?ei^n; 
Grtotpenb fofgt er t'pren ©puren 
Unb tfl con tprcrn ©rufj begfiirft. 

Dab ©c^onfle fucpt er auf ben gfuren, 
SDBomtt er feme Siebe fcpmitcff. 

0 jarte ©epnfucpt, fitfjeb ^>offcn, 

Der erflen Siebe gofbne ^eit, 

Dab 2fuge fie^t ben fptmmef offen, 
db fdjtcefgt bab ^Jerj tn ©efigfeit— 

D, bap fie etcig gritnen bfiebe, 

Die ftpiine 3eit ber jungen £icbe! 


2Bte pep fepon bte ‘pfeifen brdunen! 
Dicfeb ©tdbepen tamp’ icp etn. 


His prime of life in peace beginning, 

Sleeps beneath the mother’s eye, 

That, like a watch-light, ever warning, 
Beams upon his golden morning: 

Foul or serene, his future doom 
Lies lapped in Time’s unfathomed gloom: — 
1 His years like feathered arrows fly ! 

From maiden play to man’s employ 
Indignant starts the stripling boy: 

He grasps his staff—he roams the earth— 

A stranger to his father’s hearth 
Returns, and views, in all her charms. 

The maid that first his young heart warms. 
Bright as a vision heaven-born, 

She blooms in beauty, like the morn 
Flickered with all its orient hues,— 

So deep a blush her cheek imbues. 

A nameless, longing, lingering glow 
Fires all his blood; he roves alone; 

Tears from his eyes unwonted flow: 

Far from his rude companions flown, 

Her steps he traces, blest where’er 
She greets him: field and flowery grove 
He spoils of all that’s sweet and fair, 
Wherewith to grace his lady-love. 

Ah ! tender hope ! Ah ! dear delusion ! 
First love ! life’s golden age of dreams ! 
Heaven opes—he quaffs the bright effusion, 
And basks in blest Elysean beams. 

Oh ! that young Love’s sweet primrose tide 
Might ever fresh and fair abide ! , 

See ! the glowing pipes grow brown: 
I’robe the metal to the core. 



















©elm unVg uPerglag® pf^emen, 

2Bt'rb’g jwnt ©uffe getttVj fcpm 
3e$t/ ©efeflett, fvifd;! 
fivitft mtr i?cigs ©emtftf;, 

£>P bag ©probe nut bent 2Betd)en 
©tdj 'oexeint junt guten Qeifyen, 

T)enn, ioo bag ©trenge nut bem 3<wten, 
2Bo ©farfeg ftdj unb SD?tIbeg paarten, 

2) a gt'Pt eg emeu guteu $Iang. 

©ritnt prtife, wer ftdj ewtg Pmbet, 

DP ftt^ bag §erj junt £>erjen ftnbet! 

©er SBalm tffc furs, bte 8?eu’ tft fang, 

StePftd) in ber 33rdute forfeit 
©ptelt ber jt'ungfrduftdje ^ranj, 

SOBemt bte fjeffen 5?trcf;engfocfen 
Saben ju beg gefleg ©fans* 

2£(^! beg £ePeng fdjonfte geter 
©nbt'gt audj ben SePengntat. 

SDftt bem ©iirtef, rntt bem ©djfeter 
9tet£t ber fdjone SBaljn entjmen 
©te Setbenfdjafi: ffte^p 
®te StePe ntup Pfet'Pen; 

©)te SBfurne oerPIit^t, 

Dte gru^t rnufj tret’Pen; 

£>er Sftann muf ptnaug 
3ng fetnbftcfje SePen, 

3J?uf totrfen unb jlreben 
Unb pftanjen unb fdjaffen, 

©rftffen, erraffen, 

SMufj metten unb wagen, 

Sag ©fucf ju erjagen. 

Sa firomet f>erPet bte unenbft'dje ©aPe, 

(Eg futft ftcfj ber ©pettier rntt foftft’cfjcr ipaPe, 


If the rod, now plunging down, 

Rises glazed with molten ore, 

’Tis a token sure 
All is prime and pure; 

That, soft and brittle, meetly cast, 
Are ripe to run, and pledged to last. 

For when contrasted natures pair,. 

And rough and smooth united are, 

Then rings the concord rich and strong. 
Thus ye, ere plighted at the shrine, 

Prove well if heart with heart combine: 
Short is the trance—repentance long. 
Fluttering in the young bride’s tresses 
Sweet the virgin-blossoms play. 

When the merry church-bell blesses 
Wedded love’s bright holiday. 

Ah ! the moment of enjoying 
Strikes with blight love’s short-lived May; 
The girdle loosed, the veil withdrawing. 
Tears the fairy trance away. 

L But love must endure 
When passion is dead. 

As fruits will mature 
When their blossoms are shed. 

And man must go forth 
On the race he is running, 

By wit or by worth, 

By force or by cunning, 

Must plant and must gather. 

Must strive and importune, 

And grapple and grasp 
And make prisoner of fortune. 

Now flows the full spring-tide 





















£>te 9?aume roacfjfett, ee befmt ftty bag £aug, 

Uni) brt'nnen toaltet 
T)ie juc^ttge ftaugfrau, 

©t'e Shutter ber ftt'nber, 

Unb f)errfc$et tioetfe 
3m fjdugftcfjen Hretfe, 

Unb leljret bte Sflabc^en, 

Unb meftref ben ftnaben, 

Unb reget o^n’ tfnbe 
2)te fleiftgett ipanbe, 

Unb mefjrt ben ©etinnn 
2J?tt orbnenbem ©urn. 

Unb fiiCet mtt ©tfjafcett bte buftenben £abctt, 

Unb brefjt um bte f<$nurrcnbe ©ptnbel ben giaben, 
Unb fammelt tm retnltdj geglatteten ©djm'tt 
Ste [c^tmmernbe SBofle, ben fcf;neetgen Setn, 

Unb ftiget jitm ©uten ben ©tanj unb ben ©trimmer, 
Unb ruljet minuter. 


Unb bet 33ater, niit froljcm 3Mtcf, 


Of wealth without measure; 

His garners are warped 
By the weight of his treasure. 
With his wealth and his wares 
His mansions increase, 

And the good housewife’s cares 
Never slumber nor cease. 

The mother of children. 

The nurse and the guide. 

O’er house and o’er home 
Behold her preside. L ' 

With prudence she governs, 
And orders, and aids, 

Exhorts or upbraids, 

Rebuking the boys, 

And instructing the maids. 
With hand ever stirring, 

And heart ever light. 

The spinning-wheel burring 
From morning to night, 

For thrift and for gain 
O’er-toiling her brain, 

The pomp and the state 
Of her house to maintain. 

In sweet-scented coffers, 

And cabinets bright. 

Of woollen and linen, 

All glossy 'and white, 

She husbands and heaps 
Inexhaustible store, 

And toils evermore. 

And the father exultingly 

































6 


iii- 

- mw 


/ 

Son beg £aufeg metffcfjattenbem ©tebef 

Looks from the loft 

UeBerja^let fern bfttfjeitb ©fittf, 

Of his turret on high, 

©tefjet ber ^foften ragenbe 23aume 

Over castle and croft, 

Unb ber ©cfjewtett gefitttte ^dume 

And counts o’er his hoard— 

Unb bte ©pettier, »om ©egen gebogen, 

His stacks, and his stables, 

Unb beg torneg bewegte SBogen, 

And warehouses, stored 

Sfttfmf ftcfj tnt't Ifofjem 9)?unb: 

From their floors to their gables, 

gejf, wne ber (£rbe ©runb, 

And bursting with foison— 

©egen beg Ungfitcfg SSftacpt 

His fallows and leas 

©teft mtr beg fpaufeg ^radjt! 

With fulness o’er-teeming, 

£>oif) nu't beg ©efcptcfeg SJJdcften 

And waving and beaming 

3ft fern eitt’ger 23unb ju flecfjten, 

With bright burnished corn, 

Unb bag Ungfitcf fc^rettet fdjnefb 

And with far-spreading trees: 

X 

And he boasts in the pride of his heart, “Behold! 


“ Yonder my house and land— 


“ Firm as the earth they stand. 


“ Glittering in glory and treasure untold.” 


Vain man ! for no mortal may hold 


A bond everlasting of fortune ! for wide, 


And sudden, and swift is the stride 


Of Adversity, trampling on Power and Pride. 

SBoff! nun fann ber ©uf begtnnen, 

Hold ! the well-grained metal shows, 

©cfbn gejadet iff ber SBrttcf); 

Cleft in twain, a sample fair; 

£) 0 (fj, bettor ttrir’g faffett rumen, 

Yet, ere forth the torrent flows, 

33etet etnen frontmen ©prmf>! 

Bow with me in solemn prayer. 

©toft ben Bapf?* 1 <*«$! 

Strike the stopple out ! 

©ott bewafjr’ bag £aug! 

How the brown waves spout— 

3ftantfenb t'n beg £>enfefg 33ogen 

Arching o’er their prison wall ! 

©djieft’g mtt fenerbrattnen SBogen, 

God of his mercy guard us all ! 

SBofjftfdttg tft beg geuerg Sftacft, 

0 

Mild and benignant is the might 

SBenn fie ber 9J?enfcf> bejdfmt, bemacfjt, 

Of fire, when watched and ruled aright. 

r 

m 

933 - - 

-—-fsi*@ 
















Unb, was er btlbet, was er fdjafft, 

®aS banft er btefer £tmmel3fraft; 

£)ocf) furc§tbar nhrb bte IptntmelSfraft, 
2Benn fte ber $effel fTt^ entrafft, 
©nljertritt auf ber etgnen ©pur, 

®te freie ^oc^ter ber SRatur. 

28elje, wentt fte, foggelaffen, 

SBadjfettb oljne SBtberfkttb, 

25urd) bte »off6elef>ten ©affert 
2BaIjt ben ungefjeuren 23ranb! 

2)emt bte CEfemertte ^affert 
®aS ©eWb’ ber 2Renfdjenfjattb. 

2buS ber SBotfe 
£lutKt ber ©egen, 

©tromt ber SRegen; 

2fuS ber SBoIfe, ofme SBafjt, 

3ucft ber ©tra^t. 

£6rt t'ljr’S wtmmcrn »om £§urm? 
DaS tjl ©turm! 

$Rotf>, wte 23tut, 

3ft ber pummel, 

DaS tfl m'djt beS £age$ ©but! 

2Be(tf> ©etiimmel 
©trafjen auf! 

Dampf roaflt auf! 

Jfatfernb fteigt bte fteuerfaule, 

2)urc£ ber ©trafe lange 3 e ^ e 
2Barf»6t eS fort mt't SBtnbeSctfe. 
ffoc^enb, tote auS DfenS 9iad>ett, 

©lii^n bte Ciifte, SSalfcn frat^en, 

^foftcn ftiirjen, Jenfter fltrrett, 

Htnber jantmerti, SRiittcr trren, 

Tfyicxe wtmmcrn 


And well may man, with grateful heart, 
For many a wonder-working art, 

Revere the heaven-born power divine: 
But should the “ chartered libertine”— 
Great Nature’s free and fiery child— 
Unbridled, in her course run wild, 

Woe to the dwellers in the town 
Whereof she makes her ruthless sport, 
Hurling the conflagration down 
Populous street and crowded court, 

Like some huge giant’s monstrous braud 
For all the elements, arrayed 
In mortal enmity, have laid 
Under their most immitigable ban 
The triumphs of the mind of man, 

The marvels of his hand. 

Every gift is from on high: 

The self-same Power 
That sheds the shower, 

Shoots lightning from the sky. 

The storm is up ! Heard ye the cry 
Come wailing from yon tower ? 

Yon light is not the day ! 

O’er all the air 
A blood-red glare 
Blots out the genial ray. 

Street, and strand, and mart along, 

What a hurley ! what a throng ! 

Rolls the smoke—the fire-blast roars, 
And like a flaring pillar soars. 

Waxing, as the whirlwind throws 
Down the long street’s swarming rows, 
Flames, as from a furnace flashing— 
















8 




Hitter Striimmern: 

21fle6 rerntet, r ettet, fliti fytet, 

Stagfjefl tft bte ‘ftadit geltdfieh 
Surd) ber ipdttbe lattge $ette 
Xtm bte SEBette 

gft'egt ber Grittier, fjodj tttt 33ogett 
@prt|en ©lueflett 2Baffertx'ogen. 
§eulettb fomittt ber ©titrm geflogett, 
2)er bte glcttttttte brctttfettb fitdfl, 
firaffelttb tit bte bitrre 3ru$t 
gdflt fte, tit beS ©petd)er$ S^artme, 
Sit ber ©parrett bitrre Samite, 

IXttb, atg woflte fte tut SBefjett 
20Wt ftcf) fort ber Grrbe SBucfjt 
Otetfeit tit geloatt’ger fffudjt, 

SEBacft^t fte tit be3 ^h’mtnelS £>bf>en 
Siiefettgrofi! 

£offmutgMo6 

SBetcpt ber SD?ettfcf> ber ©otterprfe, 
20 f Jttfitg fteljt er fettle 2Berfe 
Uttb bettntttbertib unterge^eit. 


Post and lintel burst in twain— 
Tottering beam and column crashing— 
Battered wall—and clinking pane ! 
Scared from their deserted home, 
Children scream, and mothers roam; 
And mid the smouldering ruins whine, 
With helpless moan, the frighted kine. 
All is hurry, fear, and flight— 

Noonday blaze usurps the night. 

Down the chain. 

From hand to hand, 

Flies the bucket, and amain 
Hisses on the burning brand. 

From the funnels 
Arched on high, 

Gushing runnels 
Spirt and fly 

But the tempest speeds its course, 
Howling, where the quenchless force 
Of fire hath found its fuel out, 

Spite of whelming water-spout. 

There, mid spars and beams it raves, 

As if a sea of fiery waves 
Would, to its all-devouring deep, 

Earth from her foundations sweep. 
Heavenward towers the giant blaze ! . 
Man, mid his ruined labours, prone. 
Bows down to Him, of power alone 
To prostrate or to raise. 


m 

_ 

(^irc>3ai 


Seergebrannt 
3ft bte ©tdtte, 

2Bilber ©titrme rattles 23ette. 


All lies waste, and burned, and bare— 
The wanton winds are chambering there— 
And Desolation broods within. , 

























3n ben oben f^enflerfio^fen 
SSofmt ba3 ©rauett, 

Unb beS ipimmete SSolfen flatten 
ipecp fynein. 


Si’nen 33Kcf 
9?adj bent ©rate 
©enter Ipabe 

©enbet nocp ber 2D2enfc^ juriicf— 

©retft frofdicp bann $um SBanberftabe: 
25?a6 5 eu ^ 25utp tfjm aucp geraubt, 
Sin ftifer 2rofi tfi tprn gefdicbcn, 

Sr ' 3 df)ft bie ipdupter feiner Steben, 

Unb, fiicf)’! ipnt fefflt fern tf>eitre6 Ipaupt. 


3n bie Srb’ ift’6 aufgenommen, 
©fucffic^ ift bie Jorm gefiittt; 
SSirb’s aucf; fcf>6n ’ 3 u £age fommcn, 
2)ap c3 Jlcip unb $utift uergift? 
253enn ber ©up mipfattg? 

253enn bie Jornt $erfprang? 

21 cp, oieflcicpt, t'nbcnt rotr poffen, 

Ipat unS Unpctf fcpon getroffen. 

Dcm bunfefn ©djop ber pctf’gen Srbe 
93ertraucn wir ber .Spdnbe 2T;at, 

23ertraut ber ©cimann feine ©aat 
Unb pofft, bap fie cntfcimen ivcrbe 
3um ©cgcn, nacp bc$ £intmef$ 9?at(). 
9?ocp fofific^eren ©amen bergcn 


9 


T 

Through yawning breach, and window rent. 

Over the roofless tenement, 

The clouds of heaven, careering high. 

Lower as they pass, and wistfully 
Look in. 

One parting glance the good man throws 
Upon the spoil 
Of all his toil. 

Then grasps his staff, and forth he goes. 

Fire and storm have worked their will. 

But one sweet comfort soothes him still, 

Midst ruin unimpaired: 

The living objects of his love 
He counts, and blesses Him above 
His dearest wealth is spared. 

Poured on earth, the metal bright 
Fills the mould: but who may tell 
Whether all within be well, 

Cost and labour to requite ? 

What if ore or clay 
Burst, or bolt astray ? 

Ah ! while doubts perplex the soul, 

Oft mischance hath dealt the dole. 

In the dark lap of mother earth 
His handiwork the craftsman lays. 

The Sower sows his seed, and prays 
For blessing, which to second birth 
The embryo plant may raise. 

Still dearer seed in earth’s kind womb, 

c 

« 

___ . W 

— - MW 


























10 


3Btr trauernb in ber (frbe ©$ofb 

Unb ^offett, bafj er au^ ben ©argen 
dxUix^en fell ju fcfjbnernt 2o$, 

With humble hope, we bid repose, 

That it may fairer flowers disclose, 

And blossom to a better doom. 

SSon bent Some, 

©tfptner unb bang, 

£bnt bt'e ©lode 
©rabgefattg. 

G£rn|l beglet'tett t'f)re Srauerfc^ldge 
®tnen SBattbrer anf bent lenten SBege, 

From the minster-tower the bell 

Slowly tolls a funeral knell; 

Greeting, with solemn tone, the long array 
That leads some wanderer on his latest way 

2M;! bt'e ©attm tfl’S, bt'e tf)eure, 

Slcf>! eb t'ft bt'e treue Gutter, 

Dt'e bet f^warje gitrjl bet ©fatten 

2Begftt(jrt aud bent 21rm bed ©atten, 

Slttd ber gotten ^t'nber ©djaar, 

£)ie fte bluljettb tfjm gebar, 

£)t'e fte an ber treuen 23ruft 

SBadtfen fafj ntt't 9)fntterlnft— 

2lcfj! bed fpaufeS jarte 23anbe 
©t’nb gelbdt anf tmnterbat: 

£>ettn fte tnotjnt t'nt ©dpattetdanbe, 

S)te bed fpattfed Gutter ntar; 

X)enn ed fejtft tf;r trened SBalten, 

3f>re ©orge rvac^t md;t nte^r; 

9(n ^ertnatdter ©tatte flatten 

SBt’rb bt'e grembe, ftebeteer, 

Ah ! ’tis she ! The mother dear 

Sleeps upon her sable bier ! 

’Tis the tender consort, tom 

From her husband’s arms forlorn; 

From the lovely brood she bare. 

On her bosom flowering fair, 

Blessing, as mothers only bless, 

Their growth in grace and loveliness. 

Ah! the household bond, for ever 

Burst in twain, lies buried there; 

For the shades of death dissever 

Her from all that fondly were 

Linked by her in love-sweet union. 

She no more, with watchful care, 

Tends the heart-warm home-communion— 
Other hands the meal prepare; 

And the bower she loved to grace, 

And the board she used to share— 
Cheerless all ! Her orphan race 

In a stranger’s cold embrace. 

Pine, like flowers in frosty air.: 













23t3 fete ©locfe fic^ tterfuljlef, 

2aft bte ftrenge 2Ir6ett ru^tt. 

3Bte tm £aub ber 2Sogel fptelet, 

2>Zag ftcp Seber gutltc^ t(>un. 

SStnft ber Sterne £td)t: 

I'ebtg alter |5fltdjt, 

Iport ber 23urfct;’ bte SBefper fc^lagcn 
•Jfteifter mup fic^ imnter plagen. 

2)?unter fbrbert feme ©t^rttte 
^ern tm mttben gbrjf ber SSanbrer 
9?adj ber licben Qeimatyiitte. 

231bcfenb jtefjen peim bte ©djafe, 

Unb ber Sitnber 
23reitgeftirnte, glatte ©cfjaaren 
ftommcn briihenb, 

Die gewopnten ©tdtfe fitdenb. 

Stumer herein 
©d;wanft ber 2Bagen, 
ftornbefabcn; 

Sunt non Jarben, 

2tuf ben ©arbcn 
Sicgt ber ftran$, 

Itnb ba$ jttnge Soft ber ©emitter 
gttegt jttnt £an$. 

97?arft unb ©trape merben ftttter; 
tint bed ?id;td gefctt’gc gtamme 
©ammetn pet; bte ipauobcroofjner, 

Unb bad Stabttt;or fddiept fid) fnarrenb. 
©d;toar$ bcbccfct 
©td> bte Cfrbc; 

25od; ben ftd>cnt Siirger fetyrerfet 
9?id>t bte 9lad)t, 


11 


Soft! the work grows cool. Away ! 

Rest ye from your toils awhile: 

Blithe as birds upon the spray, 

As ye list your hours beguile. 

Lo ! the star of eve 
Sheds a sweet reprieve. 

Or hie ye, lads, to vesper-prayer: 

Nought must relax the Master’s care. 

Cheerly through the greeu-wood now 
His homeward path the traveller holds; 

And to their wonted stalls and folds 
Sleek beeves, with broad and open brow, 

And bleating weanlings throng. 

Beneath its cumbrous load of grain 
Heavily reels the creaking wain, 

Whose sheaves, with motley garlands crowned. 
The jocund reapers dance around, 

And hail with harvest-song. 

Street and market-cross grow still; 

And, jarring on its hinges shrill, 

The city-gate is heard to close; 

And where yon social taper glows 
The calm home-dwellers meet: 

And earth puts on her winding sheet. 

But what has darkness to appal 
The sober citizen withal, 

In conscious worth secure ? 

For Justice, with her dragon-eye, 

Dogs, through the murky midnight sky, 

The wretch of soul impure. 






















X)ie ben S3ofert graft’d; wetfet: 
©enu bab Sluge beb ©efe^eb wac^t 

ipetTge Drbttuug, fegen^vet'c^e 
iptmntrfbtorfjter, bte bab @fetcf;e 
$ret unb fetcf;t unb freubtg lunbet, 
T)ie ber ©tdbte 23au gegrunbet, 

25te fjeretn »on ben ©eftlben 
9?tef ben ungefefl’gen SBt'fben, 

(Emtrat in ber iUJenfcfjen Qixtten, 
©t'e gewbljnt ju fanften ©ttten, 

Unb bob tfjeuerffe ber 23onbe 
2Sob r ben Slrteb junt Soterlonbe! 


£aufenb ffetfj’ge £dnbe regen, 
£>effen ft cl; tn munterm SBunb, 
Unb tn feurtgent 23ewegen 
SOBerbett ode H'rcifte funb. 

®?etjler rii^rt ftt^ unb ©efefie 
3n ber §ret(;ett IjetTgem ©cfju£, 
Seber freut ftcf; [enter ©teffe r 
SMetet bent 33erdd;fer £rutj. 
Slrfcett tft beb 23urgerc Siexl'e, 
©egen ift ber SDUtfje «etb; 

©fjrt ben ftontg fetne SCBurbe, 
(Stjret unb ber £anbe 

■Spolber ^rtebe, 

©itfje ©tutroc^t, 

SBetfet, inetfet 

greunbftcfy fiber btefer ©tabt! 



Hail, holy Concord! hail to thee, 
Spirit of heaven-born unity ! 

That links, in fetters free and light, 
The joyous bond of equal right— 

Firm on whose foundation rise 
Powers and principalities— 

Whose voice th’ unsocial savage calls 
From lonely wilds to peopled walls— 
Visits the haunts of human kind. 

To gentle manners moulds the mind, 
And weaves the dearest holiest band— 
Devotion to our Fatherland. 

Countless hands in eager motion. 
Fired to zeal by mutual aid, 
Art-inspired, o’er land and ocean 
Roll the rich-fraught flood of trade. 
Man and Master, with reliance 
Each on each, for freedom toil; 

Each to treason hurls defiance; 

Each upholds his native soil. 

Blessing from above embraces 
Industry on every side : 

Kingly worth the monarch graces; 
Peerless art’s the craftsman’s pride. 

Gentle Peace ! sweet Harmony ! 

0 be this your sanctuary ! 

Hover, hover o’er this town ! 

Trampling march, or martial sally, 

























13 


e«, 


9ftoge me ber £ag erfcpettten, 

2Bo beb raitpen $rtegeb Corbett 
£iefeb pitte £pal burcptoben, 

23o ber ipimmel, 

2)en beb Slbenbb fanfte 9iotpe 

Sieblkp malt, 

SSon ber Dbrfer, »on ber Stable 

SEBilbem 23ranbe pprecfltcp praplt! 

Ne’er invade this tranquil valley : 

Ne’er, dread Heaven, in vengeance muster 

Fiercer flames, than yon mild lustre 

Shed from Eve’s enamelled crown: 

Ne’er, to mar our tender tillage, 

City stormed, or blazing village. 

Shoot their scattered fire-brands down. 

9?un jerbrecpt mir bab ©ebdube, 

Seine Slbpcpt ^at’6 erfuftt, 

Sap pep fperj unb 21uge wetbe 

Stn bent moplgelungnen iSilb. 

©cpnhngt ben jammer, fcpttu’ngt, 

33is ber 50?antel fprtngt! 

SBenn bte ©locf foil aufei'Pepett, 

9)htp bte 5orm tit Stiicfen gcpeit. 

Smite me now the frame asunder. 

Earth and fire have played their part; 

Let th’ accomplished work, with wonder 

Feed the eye, and glad the heart. 

Swing the hammer, swing, 

Till the splinters spring. 

Ere it rise, th’ unmantled bell 

Must cast off its shattered shell. 

Scr helper fann bte Jornt jerbrccpett 

TOit ttetfer Ipanb, jur recpteit 3 el t> 

Sotp »epe, tvcntt tn ftfatttmeitbdcpcn 
■£ab glitpnbe (frj pep felbjt befrett! 

23finbnuitpenb, mit beb Sonnerb ftvaepert 

3erfprengt eb bab geborpne Jpaub, 

Unb, hue aub offnem fpoflenraepen, 

Speit cb SScrbcrbcn jiinbenb anb. 

28o rope ftrcifte pnnfob roaften, 

Sa fann pep fein ©ebilb gcfbaCtcn; 

SBettn pep bic 33b(fer fefbfi befrein, 

Sa fann bte 2Boplfaprt ltiept gcbeipit. 

To break the mould with timely heed 

A Master’s practised hand demands; ^ 

But woe the while, when rashly freed. 

The fiery prisoner bursts his bauds. 

With the rattling din of thunder, 

With a flood, as heaved from hell. 

Ruin sweeps, and rends asunder 

House, and all therein that dwell. 

When reckless force usurps the sway, 

Fast falls each fabric to decay. 

So, when the many, self-set-frce. 

Cry havock to authority, 

All that was glorious, good, and great 

Lies prostrate with the ruined state. 


5 






















14 


tt>enn ftcfj tn bent ©djofi ber ©table 
2)er geuergttnber fh'tt gcfmuft, 

2)ag Self, gerra'fienb feme ^fette, 

3ttr ©genplfe fcfrecfltd) gretft! 

S)a gerret an ber ©locfe ©trdngen 
©>er Stufruljr, baf fte Ijeulenb fc^altt 
Unb, nur gett>et^t gu grtebengUdnqen, 

©)te Sofung anjltntml gur ©etuatt. 

gret'ljet't unb @letcf)f)ett! ^ort man flatten; 
©er rulj’ge Sitrger gretft gur 28ef)r’, 

©)te ©trafen fuflen ftdj, bte fatten, 

Unb SBitrgerbanben gteljn timber. 

2)a tnerben SSetber gu Ippanen 
Unb tretben nut (Entfeigen ©djerg: 

Stfodj gucfenb, nut beg ^antfierg 3«^nen, 
3erretfen fte beg getnbeg fperg. 

£>et%eg tffc ntefjr, eg lofen 
©td; afle 53anbe frontnter ©djeu; 

©er ©ute rdumt ben $Ia£ bent 23bfen, 

Unb able Safter walten fret. 

©efdfirftdj t'ffc’g, ben Sett gu tuecfcn, 
23erberbltdj tfl beg Stt'gerg 3 a ^J 
3ebod) ber fd;recfltd)fte ber ©djrecfen, 

Sag tffc ber 20?enfd; tn fetnent SLBatfn. 

SBefj’ benen, bte bent ©ttngbtt'nben 
Seg Stdjteg ^tnttnelgfatfel fetl;n! 

©te ftraltft tlmt ntdjt, fte faun nur giinben 
Unb dfdtert ©tdbf unb Sanber etn, 

greube t>at mtr ©ott gegeben! 

©eljet! trn'e etn golbner ©tern, 


Woe to the land in whose still breast 
Sedition feeds the lurking flames; 

Where, by no rule of right represt, 

The people self-dominion claims. 

Then, fiercely swung with frenzied hand. 
To arms the peace-devoted bell 
Sounds an alarm, and frights the land, 

Ill tuned to war’s discordant yell, 

To “Freedom and equality!” 

The streets and crowded halls resound: 

To arms the peaceful burghers fly, 

And sworn assassins prowl around. 

The Furies then to woman’s breast 
The fell Hyena’s rage impart. 

With fiendlike joy and wanton jest 
Mangling the life-warm throbbing heart. 
All awe of holy things is o’er. 

Shame’s modest mantle torn away, 

Vice stalks degraded worth before, 

And riots in the face of day. 

Right dangerous is the Lion’s lair. 
Quenchless the Tiger’s thirst for blood, 
Direst of all the wild-eyed glare 
Of man, brute man, in frantic mood. 

Woe on whome’er Heaven’s fire-holt falls, 
Hurled by the purblind ruffian band; 

It beams not on their sightless balls, 

But burns to ashes all the land. 

Blessing crowns our honest toil. 

Like a kernel from the shell. 













2(u6 ber ^>uffe, bfanf unb eben, 
©cfjdft ftcfj ber metatfne S?ern. 

2Son bcm £elnt $um ^ranj 
©ptelt’3 tote ©onnenglanj; 

Sfttcfj be3 2Bappen6 nctte ©cfn’lbev 
Soben ben erfa^rnen 23tfber. 

fperetn, herein, 

©efeflen atte! ftfjltefjt ben 9?ctljen, 

25afl toir bie ©locfe taufenb toeifjen, 
(Eoncorbta foil i(jr 9?ame fepn. 

3ur (£intracf>t, ju ^erjtnntgcm SSeretne 
23erfammle fie bte Itebenbe ©etneine. 

Unb btes fcp fortan ijjr 23eruf, 

SSopi bet 5D?etfiet fie erfdptf! 

Ipod; tiberm niebern (frbenleben 
©oK fie tm blaucn fpimmelejclt, 

2)ie 9?arf;barin bes 2)onner£, fdjweben 
Unb grdn* 3 en an bte ©ternemocft, 

©ott cine ©timme fctjn oon Dbcn, 

2Bie bcr ©cfh'rne (tette ©cfjaar, 

2 h'e tftren ©c(; 6 pfcr toanbeinb loben 
Unb fiiljrcn bas bcfranjtc 3<*br- 
3iur cnnVjcn unb crtijicn 2)tni]cn 
©c 9 t(jr metattncr 9)?unb getocti;t, 

Unb fhinbltdj mit ben fc^ncffcn Scf;toinjen 
23eriiftr’ tm Jluge fic bte 3 c *t- 
Dcin ©cfpcffal Icityc fie bte 3“wge; 

©clbfl (jcr^lo^, of>nc 21? ireful; I, 

33eg(eitc fic in tf>rem ©dprunge 
2)c$ Scbcnd toccbfcfoottctj ©picl. 

Unb, tote bcr ft lung im £>(;r oerijc(;ct, 


Or a planet from the coil 
Of parting clouds, bursts forth the bell. 
Round the helm a blaze, 

Like a sunbeam, plays; 

And legend and armorial shield. 

Proof of cunning bell-craft yield. 

A ring ! a ring ! 

And welcome to the christening ! 
“Concordia !” cry, my merry-men all, 

For thus our handiwork we caU, 

To heartfelt union shall it sound, 

And strike a sacred peace around. 

Be this its doom: to this we vow 
Our craft of hand, and sweat of brow. 

Aloft “in pride of place,” and far 
O’er earth’s low dwellings, shall it rise; 
With the red bolt, and rolling star. 
Co-tenant of the boundless skies. 

A voice, as of the host on high, 

That, shrined in every starry sphere, 
Hosannah! to their Maker cry, 

And lead in dance the circling year,— 

To nought but high and holy things 
The deep-toned voice devoted be. 

As, hour by hour, it speeds the wings 
Of time to vast eternity. 

A tongue oracular to fate, 

Though cold and heartless, shall it lend; 
And, with life’s mazes intricate, 

Its own symphonious changes blend. 

And as the mightiest sound that thrills 


























16 


T>ev, mac^ttg ttinenb, tf;r entfcf;aflt r 
@0 leljre fte, baft rtt'c^ts? beftef;et, 
£)af? afteb 3rbtfd)e berfjaftt. 


/ 

The throbbing ear dissolves away, 

So may it teach us, all that fills 
This earthly round must needs decay. 


3 e£o nut ber ithaft bee: ©trattgeb 
2Btegt bte ©locf mt'r nub ber ©ntft, 
£)afj fte fit bab S'letd; beb ^fangeb 
©tet^e, t'n bte fptmmefblttff! 

3 tet;et, jteljet, fiebt! 

©t'e bewegt ftcf;, fdjwebt! 
greube btefer ©tabt bebcutc, 
gvtebe fet) ttyr crft ©eldttte. 


Now ply the pulley, stretch the rope, 
And to the realms of vocal air 
Heave we the bell! Give ample scope, 
That it may spurn its lowly lair. 

Aloft, aloft it soars 1 
It swings ! it roars ! 

Joy to this city ! Peace and weal! 

Be this its first and foremost peal. ■ 














INTRODUCTION TO 


In preparing the following Analysis, the design has been, more 
plainly to interpret the mysterious emblems by which the Poet’s 
thoughts have hitherto been little more than hinted at; to point 
out the ingenuity which has realized and substantiated his abstract 
ideas ; and to unravel the clue by which they may be traced 
through all their intricate combinations. 

For this purpose recourse has been had to the remarks prefixed 
to his admirable designs by the Artist himself; but the subject 
has been treated upon a plan somewhat less confined, and in a 
style deservedly more commendatory than that to which, for 
obvious reasons, they were originally limited. It may be necessary 
also to add, that instead of the titles there prefixed to each 
number, they are here headed by mottoes, extracted from the 
Translation, in those instances where the Poem and the Outlines 
coincide; but where the latter are supplementary that epithet is 
annexed instead of a motto. This will answer the double purpose 
of familiarizing the reader with the Poem, and of pointing out 
more clearly how far it has been episodically illustrated. 

If any apology be required for having thus filled up the only 
Outline which the hand of unpretending genius has left incomplete, 


THE ANALYSIS 


it will be found in the desire of offering a tribute, which, however 
imperfect, may perhaps be deemed not altogether unacceptable, 
as proceeding from a country where the talents of Mr. Retzscli are 
so highly appreciated, and his works so extensively diffused. 

Nor will these preliminary remarks be held useless to those who 
are unaccustomed to the mystical manner in which the subject is 
treated, both by the pen and the graver. 

There are many passages, which, to a superficial observer, 
present difficulties which disappear upon more minute examin¬ 
ation: they arise, however, not from any obscurity which can 
justly be imputed as a fault to cither artist, but rather to the 
allegorical nature of the compositions themselves, and those nice 
transitions from one topic to another, which, while they exercise 
the acumen of the critic, exhibit at the same time the admirable 
discrimination of the author and his illustrator ; and thus, by 
affording opportunities to compare one with the other, enhance the 
pleasure we derive from both. 

These allegories and transitions remind us, sometimes of the 
Greek dramatic chorus, sometimes of those subtle combinations in 


i) 



























the odes of Pindar, which speak to those who understand, hut, for 
the many, require interpreters. Like a perplexed mathematical 
problem, or a fallacy in logic, they atone for the difficulty of their 
solution, and flatter the ingenuity of the student, by the detection 
of some latent application. For neither are the verses of Schiller, 
nor the Outlines of Retzsch, to be considered, according to the 
Oriental metaphor, as pearls loosely strung together, but rather as 
one of those delicate Indian chains, whose links at a little distance 
are invisible, but, on closer inspection, are found to be connected 
by a series of processes, which, though partially minute and 
elaborate, form altogether an object whole and entire : simplex 
duntaxat et unum . 

These Outlines consist of forty-three pieces, which it is proposed 
to analyze severally, and in relation to each other, according to 
their numerical arrangement. 

Under this arrangement they may be said to form a little gallery 
of cabinet pictures, illustrative of a series of thoughts, which being 
embodied in certain forms, and disposed in various groups, atti¬ 
tudes, and situations, become the vehicle of a connected narrative. 

The principal subject is the history of a church bell, from its 
formation in the foundery—or rather from its first conception, 
as an abstract idea, in the Poet’s mind—to its final dissolution, 
in common with all the proudest works of man, under the operation 
of Time, the author of all decay. As a kind of underplot to this 
fable, are represented the various vicissitudes of human life: these, 
as in dramatic composition, subserve to the main plot. In the 
Poem they are first suggested by the principal subject, and then— 
though generally and diffusively—treated in a didactic style; but 
here they are concentrated, and combined together with parti¬ 
cular persons and places in a descriptive form. 


By this contrivance, Mr. Retzsch has created an individual and 
local interest, skilfully continued without interruption, though 
frequently by very nice gradations, through a progressive series 
of illustrations, from beginning to end : for though the forms 
which he has invented are as ideal and anonymous as those of 
Schiller, and their localities equally undefined, yet the portraiture 
of both, as often as they recur, preserves their personal identity, 
and thus infinitely exalts the interest of the subject. 

It is by this peculiar system that these beautiful drawings are 
essentially distinguished from others, whether by the same or by 
different hands: those, for example, by Flaxman — of whom, 
without the necessity of any comparison, we have a right to be 
proud —- admirably as they are designed, pretend to no such 
originality of invention; and those by Mr. Retzsch himself, 
whether they illustrate the Fridolin, the Faust, or the scenes 
from Shakspere, are all indebted to their several authors for 
their plots, the agents by which they are conducted, and the 
scenery which accompanies them. Here, on the contrary, the 
thoughts only, “the airy nothings,” are suggested to the artist, 
while the action is defined, the agents “turned to shape,” and 
all but “ a local habitation and a name ” given, not by the 
Poet, but his interpreter. 

Whether the latter has, in like manner, furnished us with 
sufficient data whereon to found the chronology of his creations, 
is a point which admits of some question. In this respect two 
things are remarkable; first, that in those scenes where offensive 
weapons are introduced, we find no fire-arms, except once, and 
then of the rudest and most primitive construction : secondly, 
that in the more familiar and domestic situations, the practice 
of smoking, now become so habitual as almost to form part of 
the German costume, has been altogether unnoticed. These 
























peculiarities, however, may easily be accounted for, by assuming 
an intermediate date between the earber use of gunpowder, and 
the importation of tobacco from America. For, as it is commonly 
supposed that gunpowder was accidentally discovered by Barthold 
Schwartz, a native of Mayence, somewhere between 1290 and 
1320, that artillery was employed in Europe for the first time 
at the battle of Cressy, in the year 1346, and that tobacco was 
not known in our hemisphere till about three hundred years 
afterwards; if we take the beginning of the interval between 
these two periods for the epoch required, we need not wondei’, 
that in the course of this graphic exhibition we find banditti 
bungling with a clumsy matchlock, rebels, as well as true men, 
armed with pikes and cross-bows, and a whole German province 
still unprovided with the meerschaum. See Nos. XIII., XXXIV., 
XXXVII., and XXXVIII. These coincidences also tally well, in 
point of time, with the architecture uniformly represented 
throughout these Outlines. The wide-pointed arch, and crocketed 
pinnacle of monastic buildings, such as appear in No. XLI., 
succeeded the earlier lancet-shaped windows and undecorated 


pediments, about the middle of the twelfth, and prevailed till 
late in the fifteenth century, when they were superseded by the 
more floi’id style, of which there is here no trace. Let us, then, 
with these broad data, indulge our imagination in conjecturing, 
that the picturesque scenes to which we are about to be intro¬ 
duced belong to those days of chivalry and romance, of heroic 
magnanimity and priest-ridden superstition, when our Anglo- 
Norman ancestors, the leading spirits of that stirring age, were 
alternately building monastei'ies and casting cannon : when two 
German Emperors were contesting the throne of the Caesars, 
under the tyrannous domination of a Pope ; and when one of 
their vassals, John the Blind, King of Bohemia, disdaining to do 
homage to either, preferred the service of a foreign monarch, 
and adopting his quarrel, lost life, crest, and cognizance to our 
gallant Plantagenet, Edward the Black Px-iuce. 

With this exordium, we now present the spectator with our 
catalogue raisonne. 


lx 2 


















































































21 


mm- 

& 


THE ANALYSIS. 


NO. I. 


Whate’er the wayward Fates provide, 
Of change and chance, of weal or woe, 
The brazen mouth shall herald wide, 
And moralize to man below. 


First, then, the faint and aerial contour of the hell itself, and 
the flame which bursts from it, convey not only the idea of the 
material substance and element out of which it is produced, 
but also, the fiery genius which dictates the thought, and applies 
it collaterally to the decrees of Providence in relation to mankind, 
to time and eternity. Then, the shadowy group suggested by 
this first thought — the Four Seasons of the Year, distinguished 
from the rest of the figures by a sort of radiated coronet— 

L. 


Such may be supposed to have been the words uppermost in 
the Poet’s thoughts on the first conception of his subject, “The 
Lay of the Bell;” this sketch, therefore, represents a mere 
vision of his mind—the first rudiments of a creation hereafter 
to be developed, but now only floating in his imagination, like 
figures in the clouds, vaguely shadowing forth the leading features 
of his future Poem. 


encircle and hover round the bell, leading in their train four 
other allegorical forms, Discord, Mirth, Sorrow, and Peace. The 
first is recognized by her snaky hair, and the torch with which 
she strikes the rim of the bell, casting at the same time a wild 
and fiendlike look below, as if watching the effects of its alarum. 
On the opposite side is “ heart-easing Mirth, in heaven ycleped 
Euphrosyne,” with her garland of roses, looking upward with a 
smile; next comes Sorrow, crowned with the cypress and the 
thorn, muffled in a mourning veil, and fixing her compassiouatc 
eyes upon the earth; lastly, Peace, in the form of a beautiful 
youth, bearing a palm-branch, with which he lightly sweeps the 
bell, to elicit those harmonious tones which the poet assigns to 
it as its most desirable attribute. 

To heartfelt union shall it sound, 

And strike a holy peace around. 



























































































































































































































23 


NO. II. 


Lo ! the mould of well-baked clay, 
Close-immured, on earth doth stand ! 
Up ! we cast the bell to day : 

Up ! my comrades, lay to hand. 


This scene displays the interior of a smelting furnace, with its 
iron door-plates, suspended by chains, the aperture at which the 
crude metal is inserted, and that through which it issues when 
melted. Projecting a little in front is the mould, to which the 
master founder points, as if pronouncing the words with which 
this poem opens. Ilis apprentices are busied in various prepara¬ 
tory works, such as modelling in wax, designing and engraving 
the different ornaments, reliefs, and inscriptions. The drawing 
of the bell is observed on a scroll of paper depending from a 
corner of the table on the left band, and the master accompanies 
the labour of his workmen with “ earnest words and gentle 
speech.” The upper compartment of the building is decorated 
with a frieze, describing, in an emblematic manner, that union 
of poesy and science with which Schiller has treated his subject. 
In the centre is his bust, encircled by the Egyptian hieroglyphic 
of eternity, and illuminated by a star. The two lyres on the right 
and left, one in the shape of a swan, the other surmounted by 
an owl, and bearing at its base the head of Socrates, denote his 
character as a lyric and philosophic writer; and the garland 
which encompasses the medallion, composed of the Phccbean 
laurel and Druidical oak, points him out as the inventor of that 


species of ballad, which combines the fables of Grecian mythology 
with the Teutonic metres, such as his “ Cassandra,” “ The Ring 
of Polycrates,” “The Cranes of Ibycus,” See. On the entablature 
to the left sits Prometheus, in a contemplative posture, bearing 
the torch lighted with fire from heaven : at his side is a stone, 
at his feet a mallet, and opposite to him a campanula, or bell¬ 
shaped flower, depending from its stalk, as if suggesting the 
invention on which he seems to be intent. In the corresponding 
angle is Minerva, her head turned towards her favourite bird. 
As patroness of the peaceful arts, she holds in one hand an olive 
branch, resting on a terrestrial globe—with the other she waves 
her protecting spear over the symbols of industry; the latter 
ingeniously represented by the petal of a flower in arabescpie 
work, resembling the midnight lamp. This, like the figure 
opposite, serves to recal the lines where serious thought and 
meditation are recommended at the commencement of every 
human enterprise. 

For this was man with reason gifted, 

That lie might scarcli and understand; 

Then most adorned, when, heaven-ward lifted, 

The heart directs the labouring hand. 


1 

s 























it 























































































25 



NO. III. 




Piles of seasoned pine-brands rear, 

Till the flame, through froth and foam, 
Self-concentered, sharp, and sheer, 

To the smouldering flue strikes home. 


The preparations for beating the furnace being completed, 
those for mixing and fusing the bell-metal now succeed. The 
Master Founder carefully superintends the work; and, in the dis¬ 
course which attends it, connects, arranges, and distinguishes the 
technical process from the moral which he deduces from it. 
The artist, even in the form and construction of his plates, 
has resorted to a singular method of marking the distinction. 
It will be observed, that in treating this and other mechanical 
portions of the work he has chosen the narrow form of an 
oval to enclose the sketch, those of a didactic character assume 
the solid shape of a rectangle, while the more fanciful flights of 
imagination spread themselves over a surface unlimited by any 
line of demarcation. The present is of the first kind. This 
is a subtlety which, it must be confessed, would have escaped our 
observation, but for Mr. Retzsch’s own interpretation. Some of the 
workmen are carrying fuel to the upper gallery, others throwing 
plates of tin into the lower grate: this is done at some distance, 
and in the attitude of running, to avoid the heat emitted from the 
furnace. 




E 




















































































































































NO. IV. 


By dint of hand and fire-craft, 

High above its earthy bed, 

From the church-tower shall it waft 
Tidings of the quick and dead. 


This outline is of a highly imaginative character, and thus 
strikingly contrasted with the last. While the fire is supposed 
to be actively operating upon the metal in the interior, and the 
flames making their way through the pipes and conduits, long 
before the bell has assumed its shape iu the mould the mind 
of the poet is already anticipating its various purposes, and the 
lofty position which it is hereafter to assume. His ear already 
thrills with those tones which as yet slumber in the imperfect 
ore, but ere long 

Shall share 

Affliction with the heart forlorn, 

Or wake the sinful soul to prayer; 

and his eye, “glancing from earth to heaven,” raises the visionary 
structure of the very tower in which it is to be deposited. This 
ideal architecture, still imperfect in its construction, is already 
adorned with various shadowy devices, which contain in detail an 
epitome of the whole poem. Thus the allegory before described 


as dimly floating iu the air, now becomes the subject of a rich 
frieze, which runs round the imaginary tower. There we again 
recognise the figures of Peace, Discord, Mirth, and Sorrow. The 
cornice rests, at different intervals, on winged hour-glasses, typical 
of the flight of time; those in the interior angles bear the shape 
of bat’s wings, signifying evil times, seasons of war, pestilence, 
and famine. The whole is supported by two colossal statues, or 
caryatides, with broad pinions on their shoulders; their features 
are marked by an expression of deep thought. These personify 
the Present and the Past: the former sets his foot upon the sun, 
the source of vital existence; the latter tramples upon the emblem 
of mortality. 

The bust in the centre, with arms and wings extended, is the 
personification of the Universe, spread abroad through all spncc. 
In the pediment above is a still fainter vision, in bas-relief, of 
the bell itself, mounted iu its belfry, and touched, on one side, 
by the torch of Discord; on the other, by the palm of Pence. All 

e 2 






















28 



this recals to our thoughts the connection of the past, the present, 
and the future with the destinies of men. These again are traced 
in greater detail upon the frieze already mentioned. There, upon 
minute inspection, we perceive the following imagery, though still 
very faintly sketched: first, the entrance of an infant into life, 
marked by a baptismal procession; next, the prime and middle 
career of his existence, severally represented by a youth rising 
at break of day, and a ploughman returning from his labour at 
sunset; then the decline of life, under the form of one sleeping 
by the light of an expiring lamp. These peaceable delineations 



of the four ages of man are forcibly contrasted by the relievoes on 
the opposite side : first, under the image of a people in a state 
of insurrection; next, of a city in flames; and, lastly, of a 
ceremonial procession at the restoration of peace. In closer 
allusion to the main subject, a section of the interior of the 
furnace is exhibited, where we see that portion of the mould, 
which is called the motherpiece. It forms the outer, or convex 
side. Between this motherpiece and the concave side is an 
interval where the metal, when properly smelted, is hereafter to 
be infused. 

























































































































































































NO. V. 


Pour the potash, ere it gush, 
Searching all, above, below. 


We return to the mechanical business of the foundery, where the 
master is pointing out the moment when it is necessary to refine 
the bell-metal by the infusion of potash, and to ascertain whether 
the mixture of tin, copper, and so forth, be complete. The 
workmen are accordingly busied in raking the dross and scoria 
from the mouth of the furnace, while one holds a vessel con¬ 
taining the potash: they are all protected from the insupportable 
heat, by wet sacking folded about their heads and hands. Entering 
by a door on the left is seen the provident housewife, or a hand¬ 
maid whom she has deputed, with refreshments for the forgemen 
engaged in this exhausting labour. 
































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31 


NO. VI. 





Ilark! Low the solemn peal is ringing, 
To liail the bahe, that listlessly 
His prime of life in peace beginning, 
Sleeps beneath the mother’s eye. 


Here commences a series which unites the history of the bell 
with what we have denominated the underplot, namely, the 
different epochs and casualties of human life; magnifying and 
developing by degrees all those circumstances which hitherto have 
been only figuratively sketched in miniature, “ whereof by parcels 
we have something heard, but nought distinctively.” A procession, 
according to the forms of the Roman Catholic Church, at the 
baptism of a new-born child, is headed by the godmother,* under 
whose garment he is sleeping: it moves on, under a peal of bells, 
towards the church, where the clerk, or sacristan, is waiting at 
the door. The mother, at whose side is an aged man—the 
patriarch of the family—is distinguished by a crucifix at her 
bosom; she bends her head over a bunch of flowers in her hand, 


as if meditating on the frailty of life, and is followed by her 
husband, who seems to be calling the attention of his young 
relations to some moral reflection, suggested by the thorns and 
thistles over which they are passing. The same train of thought 
directs our attention to a stone cross at a little distance, which 
is entwined with briers, as well as roses, indicative of the mixture 
of pain and pleasure to which all are liable, from their first 
entrance into the world. It is by these means that our interest is 
early and mysteriously raised for the little being, still invisible, 
who is to be the hero of many a succeeding scene. This per¬ 
fect little picture is completed by a group in the foreground, 
and another in the distauce, of people who are gazing at the 
eeremony. 


• There is an allusion to this custom in Voss’s Idyl of “ Luise,” where the Countess Amalia pays a visit to the betrothed on their wedding-day, carrying a bundle 
under her cloak, whereupon she is questioned in these hexameters : 

?H>cr in odcr SflJclt, mad traacit Sic uliter tent fdjiuancn 
3ttantcldjcn ? faft toic ten laufiiiifl tic fdjmucfc ©coattcrin uortriigt. 

Which may he thus translated : 

What in the world have you brought beneath your little black mantle ? 

Much like a godmother, well tricked out, with a babe to be christened. 

If 

- - - -- = - - 






































































33 



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NO. VII. 


Foul or serene, his future (loom 

Lies lapped in Time’s unfathomed gloom. 


The minister, presiding at the fout of baptism, contemplates the 
future lot of the unconscious being presented to him ; and, lifting 
up his eyes to a visionary cross, ruminates on all the significant 
emblems which seem to spring from its very root. On either 
side is a branch bearing half-developed flowers, and scanty fruits, 
interspersed with wild briers: at the extremity of one is the 
fabulous cockatrice, nestling among a fanciful progeny of death’s- 
heads; of the other, the poetic swan, brooding in vain over a 
multitude of fair eggs, which manifest no signs of coming to 
maturity, and pining in literary disappointment, appears to be 
singing his own elegy. The only sure and ostensible produce 
is, on one side, Suffering; on the other, Faith. The latter, 
wearing a bandage over her eyes, betokens “ the evidence of things 
not seen.” Both are over-shadowed by the branch growing from 
the base of the cross. Yet, here and there, among the intermediate 
shoots, are seen blossoming— on the right, little cherubs, the 


spiritual growth of seed sown in the good ground—on the left, 
roses, typical of pleasures planted in a worldly soil; or, still worse, 
tares sown by the enemy, in the shape of fiends and cacodtemous— 
evil thoughts, words, and works. This ideal garland extends in a 
parallel direction with the vision hovering over it. The winged 
moments of life are streaming on either side from the bosom of 
Eternity, each bearing its tribute of gflod or evil to the two urns 
placed at the extremities: over each of these leans its respective 
genius; that on the left is Patience, whose urn is engraved with 
a tragic mask, and encompassed with thorns and passion-flowers; 
on the right is heavenly Joy, whose emblems are the cherub and 
the rose. But the wings of Patience are symbolized by the cross. 
Both turn their eyes to the providential source of every dis¬ 
pensation. Still more plainly to mark this moral antithesis, it 
is observable that worldly Suffering is surmounted by spiritual 
Patience; and sightless Faith, by heaven-beholding Joy. 



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35 



NO. VIII. 


The mother’s eye, 

That, like a watch-light, ever warning, 

Beams upon his golden morning. 

While the happy husband, peaceably employed in cutting slips 
for his garden, looks with complaisance on his first-born child) 
the mother tenderly covers the little slumberer from the dazzling - 
light, and protects him with her brush of feathers, from any 
insect that may casually disturb his rest. The scene is the interior 
of a house inhabited by a family in the middle class of society, 
to which the poet has judiciously confined the interest of his 
lay. The different articles of furniture and household utensils— 
the cage with a favourite bird, the flower-pot, and the little 
unpretending mirror, hung almost out of reach, to show that 
vanity is no inmate in their humble dwelling—are all appropriate 
to their character and situation in life. The general structure 
and arrangement of the apartment should be carefully observed; 
because it will be the scene of more than one future incident, and 
serve, at certain intervals, to point out the progress of time, by 
the changes it undergoes. 


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37 



NO. IX. 


Ilis years like feathered arrows fly ! 

We now begin to perceive that the artist is connecting the 
scattered thoughts of the lyric lay into a consecutive tale. The 
babe whom we left slumbering in the cradle is rapidly grown 
to a boy of five or six years of age: he has already found a play¬ 
fellow in a little neighbour, the daughter, it seems, of a miller. 

She is busy in constructing a little garden, to which he is eager 
to contribute his offering of a rose-bush; being introduced through 
the well known door by his father, who appears to be a gardener. 

This we have already collected from the preceding number. The 
animation of the boy’s face and attitude admirably predict that rash¬ 
ness of disposition which will be seen to mark his future career. 

The parents of the little girl look on with interest, but without 
interruption of their ordinary work; and the house-dog looks up 
quietly at the visitors, as objects familiar to him—watching at the 
same time, with double vigilance, the water-vessel which he is set 
to guard. The garden, or outer court of the miller’s house, 
deserves attention; nor must the young trees pass unobserved, 
which he is fastening to poles, for their support; because they 
will hereafter afford some of the means by which we shall be 
enabled to measure the lapse of time, when these little playfellows 
shall have attained the age of man and woman. 

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39 



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NO. X. 


From maiden play to man’s employ 
Indignant starts the stripling boy. 


After a course of years, of which no notice is taken, the scene 
changes to the road which separates the dwellings of the two 
opposite neighbours. The miller has brought his daughter, now 
a little maid of about fourteen years old, to take leave of her 
young playmate. He is arrived at that age when the German 
youths of his class in life are usually sent abroad to see some¬ 
thing of the world, and to learn the rudiments of their future 
trade or profession. She seizes his arm once more to detain him, 
and sinks weeping on her father’s hand; while the young man, 
full of ardour and impetuosity, and smitten with the love of travel, 
heeds neither her tears nor the parting admonition of his parents, 
but bids them all a hasty farewell—little conscious of the change 
which a long separation will produce in his heart, when he shall 
return to her from whom he now parts with such indifference. 
She, on the other hand, has already contracted an incipient 
affection for him, unknown to herself, till roused by this event 
from its unconscious slumber to a full and lively sensibility. 
The pigeon which is seen flying from the dove-cote, is a fit emblem 
of the truant’s disposition to be gone. 



























' //. 











































41 


NO. XI. 


He grasps his staff—he roams the earth. 


The young traveller is now fairly on his journey; and having, 
with his characteristic eagerness, out-stripped the speed of two 
wayfaring men, whom chance had thrown into his company, gains 
the summit of a hill, whence he points with delight to the beautiful 
prospect before him, and the vessel at a distance, which is to 
transport him beyond the Rhine and the Danube, far from his 
fatherland. In his impatience he seems to envy the wings of the 
lark which is fluttering over his head: he may, however, before 
his travels are at an end, need the advice and assistance of 
companions whom he so rashly leaves behind—another trait of an 
impetuous disposition. 













































































NO. XII. 


SUPPLEMENTARY. 


During this and the following plate we lose sight of Schiller, 
and are entirely indebted to his illustrator for filling up the 
interval between the traveller’s departure and return home. The 
words of the poet, however, well warrant the licence which the 
former has taken, in assuming the duration of many years, and 
consequently a journey of great extent. 

Accordingly, we now behold him wandering among the wilds of 
some northern climate. 

Having lost all traces of his road across the snow, he meets a 
Cossack on his sledge, who, warning him of the dangers of the 
way he is about to take, points to a man who is attacked by 
wolves in the distance; while, to heighten the apparent danger, 
some crows in the foreground are feasting on the remains of 
the prey left by those ravenous beasts. 





















1 









































45 


r 


NO. XIII. 

SUPPLEMENTARY. 

Escaped from the perils of the north, our hero is now pursuing 
his journey amid the delights of a more genial sky, and appears 
lost in the contemplation of all the natural beauties around him. 
Every object within his view breathes of peace and security; and, 
to increase the repose of the landscape, a group of women is 
introduced, quietly wending their way, mounted upon mules. In 
the midst of this apparent safety, however, he is threatened by 
the most imminent danger: a robber, lurking under the covert 
of a rock surmounted by forest trees, in the foreground, has 
already armed himself with a matchlock, and is cautiously waking 
his comrade, who is fast asleep. To this accident, and probably 
to his. want of dexterity in using a weapon of rare occurrence at 
the time, the traveller owes his escape. See Introduction to this 
Analysis. 

The figures and costume of these banditti resemble those of 
Salvator, and mournfully remind us of the sketches of our own 
Mortimer, whose early death scarcely afforded time for the 
development of his talents, though it has not precluded the 
establishment of his reputation. 



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47 



NO. XIV. 




A stranger to his father’s hearth 
Returns. 


The poem once more suggests a motto to the picture. After 
a lapse of many years, during which the stripling has become 
a vigorous young man, he returns to the habitation of his 
parents, and finds them calmly seated at the very table near 
which, when we last visited the chamber, his cradle used to 
stand. (See No. VIII.) Time seems to have made little alteration 
in their household. We miss nothing but the birdcage against 
the window; the loss of its short-lived inmate helps a little to 
measure the time. Age, also, with its stealthy pace, has visibly 
crept upon the inhabitants of the dwelling. Deeply affected by 
this appearance, and the well known objects which remind him 
of his childhood, the young man pauses at the threshold, in an 
attitude of melancholy meditation. Ilis parents, in the mean 
time, perplexed by the growth of his stature, in vain attempt 
to bring him to their remembrance : in vain the old man shades 
his eyes from the light of the lamp, which bis wife has turned 
in the direction most favourable to assist her sight: suspecting, 
yet doubting the reality, they are both unable to identify the 
apparition. 



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49 


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NO. XV. 


SUPPLEMENTARY. 





The son, at last unmanned by his emotion, casts aside cloak, 
staff, and travelling sack—falls on his knees before his mother, 
and covers her hand with kisses, while she hangs upon his neck 
weeping. The aged father, bending over the table, stretches out 
his arms, impatient to embrace his long-lost child. The hurry 
and trepidation of the scene are happily expressed by the 
spinning-wheel thrown to the ground, and the little earthen 
vessel, which was attached by a string to the distaff, dashed to 
pieces on the floor. Iletzsch, in his note upon this number, 
apologizes for—what we rather acknowledge as an obligation— 
the liberty which he has taken with his author, in Ailing up the 
void, which he had left, with intervening incidents: for he has 
thus not only made us sensible of the interval which has elapsed, 
but at the same time greatly increased the iuterest, by this display 
of sensibility, so natural on the return of a son to the bosom 
of his family. It is by these, and similar touches of art — 
sometimes anticipating, sometimes postponing the events, and 
always adding some new beauty to his subject—that he proves 
his pencil to be well worthy of the thoughts which it portrays. 


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NO. XVI. 


And views, in all her charms, 

The maid that first his young heart warms. 


We now return once more to the literal text. Conducted by his 
anxious parents, the young man re-enters his neighbour’s house, 
which, as a boy, he had left with so much indifference. The 
beautiful girl, whom he had been accustomed to look upon as a 
mere playmate, now stands before him like a vision heaven- 
bom, “ a maid in all^her charms.” His first impulse is that of 
veneration, implied by the involuntary motion of his hand, with 
which he raises his bonnet, whilst his eyes intently gaze upon 
the lovely apparition, She meanwhile, surprised in the very 
act of watering the rose-bush which she had so long cherished 
for his sake, and of which she now wears a blossom in her 
bosom, lets fall the vessel from her hand, and stands motionless, 
blushing, and embarrassed. We may here remark, that though no 
graving tool can give colour to a blush, yet, when thus handled, it 
falls little short of the pen in giving force to the emotions of the 
heart. Here, likewise, it displays its peculiar mastery in another 
manner, by delineating the progress of time. The tree, which in a 
former outline the miller was tying to a stake, has now dismissed 
its prop; and the little rose-bush almost aspires to the character 
of a tree. 






























































































NO. XVII. 


A nameless, longing, lingering glow 
Files all liis blood; lie roves alone; 
Tears from his eyes unwonted flow: 
Far from his rude companions flown, 
Her steps he traces. 


How beautifully is the poetic outline filled up and embellished 
by the engraver in delineating the progress of a virtuous passion! 
The vanity and waywardness of a disposition once so headstrong 
are now subdued into a calm and pleasing melancholy: his habits 
corrected, his tastes refined, and all his aspirations elevated to 
a nobler pitch. The time and situation too, how congenial with 
such a state of mind ! 

The crescent which illumines this beautiful little landscape, 
denotes the season most propitious to the reveries of a lover. 
With no other companion but his flute, he has escaped from 
follies and debaucheries which he can no longer relish, and deaf 
to the importunate clamour of his rude associates, fixes his eyes 
upon their only cynosure—the loadstar which can alone attract 
them: for yonder is the water-mill, yonder the little latticed 
window belonging to the chamber of his beloved ! 


































































































NO. XVIII. 


Blest where'er 

She greets him : field and flowery grove 
He spoils of all that’s sweet and fair, 
Wherewith to grace his lady-love. 


Hitherto the lovers seem to have met only in the presence 
of others; and though they may be supposed to have improved 
their acquaintance, under the sanction of mutual friends, by 
frequent and gradual approaches to affection, yet they are still 
restricted by delicacy to the immediate vicinity of the paternal 
roof. 

The maiden consents at last to the appointed assignation, but 
at a distance no farther than the garden door; she is followed 
by the old household dog, which we recognise as the favourite 
of her childhood. The interview, though a stolen one, serves to 
interest us favourably in both their characters. The impassioned 
look with which he presents his bouquet, the graceful modesty 
with which she accepts it, the hand held in sacred confidence, 


the recollection of their early tastes and pursuits, by sympathy 
ripened into a more engrossing passion—all conspire to render 
them more and more amiable in our eyes. We must not overlook 
the minute finish of this composition, which reminds us of some 
of the Flemish painters: with them it is sometimes a little out of 
place, as for instance, the shells on the sea shore in the Hippolitus 
of Rubens—but here by no means so. The dog is necessary to 
particularize the dwelling of his young mistress, and could not 
have been introduced in a more natural manner : he has scented 
an almost microscopic little mouse, which is timidly crouching 
among the weeds in the corner. The masterly pencil of Landseer 
himself—with all the advantage of his lively tints—could not have 
surpassed the expression given to either animal by the colourless 
touch of our admirable engraver. 





























































57 


m 



NO. XIX. 

Ah! tender hope! Ah! dear delusion! 

First love! life’s golden age of dreams! 

Lest we should apprehend any but the holiest feeling of 
alfection to be conveyed in these emphatic words, or fear, like the 
cautious Magician in the play. 

Lest too light wooing 
Make the prize light, 

the judicious artist has directed the eyes of his lovers heaven¬ 
ward, to tlie contemplation of the glories of the starry firmament. 
They have wandered alone, and far from human observation, but 
always accompanied by a sacred reliance on the principles of 
each other, and that sense of religion which true love never fails 
to inspire. They are surrounded by all the bountiful gifts of 
providence, and contemplate them in one of their most captivating 
forms, with hearts elevated and softened by the purest affection. 

This moonlight scene, coupled with the group before us, brings 
to our recollection a picture drawn by that inimitable master who 
has left no trait of nature untouched—no chord of the human 
heart unthrilled: 


Look how the floor of heaven 
Is thick inlaid with pattens of bright gold ! 

There’s not the smallest orb which thou bclioldest, 
But in his motion like an angel sings, 

Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubim. 


I 






































































































59 



III 


NO. XX. 


Oh ! that young love’s sweet primrose tide 
Might ever fresh and fair abide ! 


It is not only to the expressive grouping of the happy pair, 
now plighting their faith by a holy kiss, in pledge of approaching 
union, that we are to look for interpretation of these words: 
our illustrator once more assumes the character of the mystagogue, 
or interpreter of mysterious emblems, more significantly to impress 
the poet’s meaning on the classic mind. 

The lovers must be supposed to have wandered to an alcove 
constructed on the grounds of some tasteful and opulent proprietor, 
who, among other embellishments, has not forgotten the one most 
indispensable—a lover’s seat. The statues of Cupid and Psyche 
are placed upon pedestals apart from each other, in allusion to 
the evanescent nature of a passion, like every other human 
emotion, liable to fluctuation, and, however lively, doomed to final 
extinction. 


This is farther implied by the well-known period in the history 
of the deities themselves—as recorded by Apulcius—that of their 
separation. Cupid, in the moment of departure, points with his 
bow to a pair of fluttering, short-lived butterflies, which remind us 
of the name and attributes of Psyche; while she, with an expression 
of remonstrance, “ her wrapt soul sitting in her eyes,” recals the 
exclamation of the poet, quoted in our motto. In the floral 
tracery which adorns the alcove, immediately over the lovers’ 
heads, are seen two little genii emerging from the bells of 
opposite flowers, and embracing with a tenderness that would 
do honour to the conceptions of a Darwin. The early rose is 
shedding its leaves at the feet of the fugitive god, while the 
wanton ivy clings about him, as if desirous to arrest his flight. 
But at the base of Psyche’s statue the butterfly, which typifies 
the soul, still sips, from some more perennial flower, the nectar 
of imperishable love. 



<353 


























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See ! the glowing pipes grow brown : 
Probe the metal to the core. 


While the Master Founder has been descanting on the various 
topics through which we have ranged, the work proceeds. He 
holds in his hand the little iron rod with which it is necessary, 
from time to time, to ascertain the state of the mixed metals. One 
of his most experienced workmen presents a portion of it upon a 
forceps for his inspection; the rest look on with an expression of 
intelligence, mixed with deference to his judgment. The inquisitive 
look of the young apprentice, bending over the block of wood, is 
well contrasted with the steady observation of the elder journeyman, 
who leans quietly upon his iron ladle. A boy is carrying fresh 
fuel to the furnace, to show that the expected crisis is still in 
suspense. At this anxious moment the refreshments remain still 
untouched upon the table. It is scarcely necessary to point out 
that the artist refrains from all figurative illustration during these 
technical operations, and the boundary of the outline reassumes 
its oval form. 





































































































































































63 



«* 

31 


NO. XXII. 


Fluttering in the young bride's tresses 
Sweet the virgin-blossoms play, 

When the merry church-bell blesses 
Wedded love’s bright holiday. 


We return to the future destinies of the bell, as connected with 
those of mankind. Having already in imagination listened to its 
first chime, at the baptism of a new-born babe, we now see, 
by its inclination, and the force with which the clapper swings, 
that a merry peal is ringing for a wedding. This wedding is 
ingeniously made applicable to the young couple for whom our 
interest has been raised. The bride and bridegroom arc dis¬ 
tinguished by the garlands on their heads: the latter leads the 
procession, preceded by a band of music, which ceases as they 
approach the churchdoor: he looks behind him, with impatience 
on the object of his affection; while she, hand in hand with her 
mother, “ passes on, in maiden meditation fancy free.” The 
matron’s time of life is distinguished from that of her daughter 
rather by a somewhat broader contour than by any visible lines 
of age; for time lays a lenient hand on those who live in 
contentment and peace of mind. The wedding garments contrast 
agreeably with the conrse attire of the peasants who are looking 
on: and the objects along the line of procession gradually diminish, 
from tlie foreground to the distance, in perfect perspective. 


I 





































































































































NO. XXIII. 


And man must go forth 
On the race he is running, 

By wit or by worth, 

By force or by cunning, 

Must plant and must gather, 
Must strive and importune, 
And grapple and grasp 
And make prisoner of fortune. 


W ith reference to the outlines, this passage might, perhaps, 
rather have been translated 

The husband must forth, &c. 

and this is a fit exemplification of one of the methods by which 
Mr. Ketzsch contrives to identify his definite characters with their 
originals, which are indefinite. Our hero thus becomes the subject 
of all those toils and tribulations of active life which are so 
eloquently described by Schiller. Some of them have been already 
enumerated in the dangers and difficulties to which he was 
exposed in his first travels; they are now to be continued, during 
his separation from his family, in the character of a husband 


and father, pursuing his fortunes abroad. We shall presently 
witness the result of his speculations. Meanwhile, how beautifully 
is the story told! how exactly are the unities observed! and this 
entirely by the artificial invention alluded to. The poem suggests 
nothing of the tenderness with which the departing traveller 
encircles his wife and youngest child in one embrace; nothing 
of the hereditary impatience with which the eldest boy breaks 
from his nurse, in admiration of the fiery steed which his father 
is about to bestride; nor the timidity of his little sister, who 
is deterred from approaching by the same cause. The flight of 
doves hovering over the horse’s head indicates, in the artist’s 
favourite manner, the distance which is to separate the adventurer 
from his happy home. 































































































































































































































NO. XXIV. 


With prudence she governs, 
And orders, and aids, 
Exhorts or upbraids, 
Rebuking the boys, 

And instructing the maids. 


The interval between the departure and return of the man 
of business is artfully supplied by this touching description of 
the interior of his establishment during his absence: it anticipates 
some passages of the poem, and keeps back others, which else 
would have succeeded too rapidly; just as in dramatic repre¬ 
sentation a greater degree of probability is often effected by the 
interposition of a scene, which protracts the time and suspends 
the interest. In this pause of action, a few slight lines place 
before us all the economical details connected with a German 
matron of the middle class. She is seated at her spinning-wheel, 
carefully instructing her eldest girl—no longer under the tuition 
of a nurse—when her attention is suddenly called to the little 
urchins who are quarrelling on the floor. She holds up her finger 
to admonish them; while the youngest, who is uppermost, directs 


his eyes towards her, and, pointing to a toy which his brother 
has seized, seems to justify his own quarrel. Tills turbulent 
group is well balanced by that in the opposite corner, where 
the two younger children are peaceably playing together: the 
little girl is alarmed at the noise, but the baby perseveres in 
preparing a bed for his doll. 

The spacious and airy apartment; the housemaid busied in its 
arrangement; the furniture substantial but elegant, where “ the 
sweet-scented coffers and cabinets,” containing her stores, are not 
forgot; and even the llower-pot at the window, still cherishing an 
off-set of the favourite rose-bush—all conspire to manifest her 
harmless tastes and virtuous inclinations. 





























































































































NO. XXV. 


Now flows the full spring-tide 
Of wealth without measure ; 
His garners are warped 
By the weight of his treasure. 


The uniform tenor of his affairs at home, under the management 
of a prudent housewife, offers little iuterest beyond the minutiae 
of a prosperous and well-regulated menage, and furnishes no index 
by which we can measure the continuance of his travels. In due 
time he reappears, after having acquired wealth by his foreign 
adventures, and is now superintending his farms and merchandise 
at home. Hi3 mansion has increased with his fortune: his ware¬ 
houses swell with the product of every quarter of the globe. Some 
of his bales remain unpacked in a large waggon, which occupies 
a prominent place in the foreground, and is guarded by a mastiff 
seated in a sprt of boot in front—a companion indispensable to 


every German carrier. Some lighter vehicles are traversing the 
yard in different directions. Every thing about him bears the 
appearance of activity: even his favourite spauiel seems to take 
part in the general bustle—while he himself looks on with an air 
of authority, and sits his well-appointed steed with the haughtiness 
of a man too confident in his own importance, and liable to be 
elevated above measure by the smiles of fortune. His wife is seen 
at a distance, less ostentatiously employed, among her children 
and domestics; and it will be observed hereafter how well this 
contrast of character is sustained. 












































































































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71 


NO. XXVI. 


And he boasts in the pride of his heart, “ Behold ! 
“ Yonder my house and land— 

“ Firm as the earth they stand, 

“ Glittering in glory and treasure untold.” 


From a lofty balcony, which commands an extensive view of his 
estate, the wealthy merchant now exhibits to his assembled family 
the magnitude of his possessions: elevated at the sight to an undue 
pitch of presumption, he points, as if in defiance, at the tempest 
already lowering in the horizon; and, turning to his wife, appears 
to be giving vent to the above irreverent expression of confidence 
in his own security. She, on the contrary, struck with foreboding 
fears, gently takes his arm, and, with a look of awful expostulation, 
w'arns him against the consequences of his presumption. The elder 
children—such is the perilous influence of example—seem interested 
in the display of their father’s importance, but the two youngest 
are only intent upon their childish play. 






















































































73 


—- 

£ 



NO. XXVII. 


Vain man ! for no mortal may hold 
A bond everlasting of fortune ! for wide, 

And sudden, and swift is the stride 
Of Adversity, trampling on Power and Pride. 


The Genius of Adversity—a bold personification of Almighty 
vengeance—is represented traversing with gigantic stride the regions 
of air, and directing the tempest. An attendant fiend looks down 
with malignant joy upon the destruction which has alighted on the 
vain-glorious man, who, trusting to the multitude of his riches, 
had defied the coming storm. 

A comet, with a fiery eye and train—assuming the form of an 
animated being—precedes the whirlwind, whose violence is visible 
in every object around. An eagle, frighted from his aerie on the 
rock, seeks shelter in the valley below. There all is ruin and 


ft 

- 


desolation. We recognise the boasted mansion a prey to the (lames 
—the unhappy proprietor flying in dismay—his chariot and horses 
struck by a thunderbolt—his plantations uprooted—his lands laid 
waste—and all the vaunted works of his hand overwhelmed by fire 
and flood; all reminding us of the words of our poet, bold as any 
of the metaphors of JEschylus, (See note on this passage,) 

All the elements, arrayed 
In mortal enmity, have laid 
Under their most immitigable ban 
The triumphs of the mind of man, 

The marvels of his hand. 






:: 


























































































































































NO. XXVIII. 


Hold! the well-grained metal shows, 
Cleft in twain, a sample fair; 

Yet, ere forth the torrent flows, 

Bow with me in solemn prayer. 


Arrived at the critical moment, when the metal, now in a 
perfect state of fusion, is to be admitted from the upper to the 
lower chamber of the furnace, to fill the mould, an operation of 
great nicety and danger, the pious master invites his workmen 
to prayer. 

The artist, faithful to national character, and skilful in the 
disposition of his groups, here exhibits a picture worthy of his 
own reputation, and just to the religious feeling of his countrymen. 
See Preface. 


L 













































































































































77 





NO. XXIX. 


All is hurry, fear, and flight— 
Noonday blaze usurps the night. 
Down the chain. 

From hand to hand, 

Flies the bucket, and amain 
Hisses on the burning brand. 


The removal of the stopple, which has disengaged the metal, 
now in a state of fiery fusion, and sent it arching through the 
orifice at the upper part of the furnace into the space left vacant 
between the core and the motherpiece, naturally suggests the 
powerful agency of fire. This leads to the poet’s animated 
description of a city in flames, of which the artist avails himself, 
as usual, by connecting the individuals with whom he has peopled 
his narrative, in the general conflagration and the ruin which 
ensues. Nor is the bell forgotten, which once more acts its 
appropriate part, in calling together the inhabitants to assist in 
subduing the fire. The commotion here represented by a 
multiplicity of intricate objects—a whole population suddenly 
roused into action, running and driving from various quarters to 
the same point—composes a picture which required, and ha3 
found, a masterly hand. Though all is in confusion, nothing is 
indistinct. A pleasing effect is produced by the three men in the 
foreground carrying a ladder, on whose heads we look down from 


an eminence. This long line, forming acute augles with several 
w'hich run parallel to each other, and cut the picture into sundry 
compartments, directs the eye along them towards the objects, 
in a variety of attitudes and employments, on the middle and 
distant ground. There we see fire-men plying their engines, or 
hurrying with their buckets; men, women, children, and cattle, all 
in helpless consternation, conspire to render this one of the most 
remarkable drawings of the whole series. The dispersion of the 
groups in so many different directions, the difficult fore-shortening 
of those brought into a point-blank view, aud the superficial 
length of ground, which allows so little room for aerial perspective, 
put us in mind of many of the pictures of Bassan. 

Not to fatigue the spectator with too frequeut occurrence of the 
same portraits, the principal persons are, as it were, lost in the 
crowd, and reserved for more prominent situations hereafter. 



JR 




















































































































































The living objects of his love 
lie counts, and blesses Him above 
His dearest wealth is spared. 


Reduced to min by the destruction of his property, the father 
collects his family, with difficulty saved from the flames, around 
the scanty remnant of his effects. He anxiously counts them, and 
finding none missing, looks up to heaven with gratitude for their 
preservation. The mother, harrassed and fatigued by sorrow and 
exertion, conceals her own sufferings to comfort her husband and 
offspring; one hand she extends to the eldest girl, who clings 
exhausted to her father’s side, with the other she supports the babe 
slumbering on her lap. The eldest boy grasps his father’s hand 
for protection, and looks back with curiosity upon sights to which 
he is so unaccustomed; while his little brother still feels no interest 
beyond bis toy, a mimic steed, which lie is chastising, as if in 


allusion to that ancient incendiary, the wooden horse of Troy. 
But the younger girl deserves all attention; she appears to be 
about eight years old, and is remarkable for one of those coun¬ 
tenances which manifest a deep and precocious sensibility, the 
source of intense misery or joy to those who possess it, and 
little enviable' on either occasion, or at any time, unless regulated 
by attentive discipline. The object of her present childish sorrow 
is the loss of her favourite, the domestic kitten, upon whose 
carcase her eyes are fixed in profound affliction. If 6lie lives, 
what will be her sympathy with objects of more rational concern ? 
It will presently appear with what cause our interest is so pointedly 
engaged for the fate of that lovely child. 












3 /- 















































































81 








NO. XXXI. 

Iu the dark lap of mother earth 
His handiwork the craftsman lays. 
The Sower sows bis seed, and prays 
For blessing, which to second birth 
The embryo plant may raise. 


This is one of those fine transitions—“tenues parti discriminis 
umbrae”—which have been alluded to in the Introduction to this 
Analysis. The connecting link of the chain, by which this portion 
is united with the whole may be thus investigated. The bell 
having now assumed its shape in the mould, remains for a 
time buried in the pit which was dug for its reception, and is 
hereafter to be raised to a more elevated station, like a vegetable 
seed sown in the ground, but afterwards to spring into a flower. 
That seed, again, resembles another, and a far more precious one— 
the human body, which is “sown in corruption,” to be “raised in 
incorruption.” The analogy becomes still closer when we are 
reminded by the poet. 

Ere it rise, th’ unmantled hell 

Must cast otf its shattered shell. 

That is, we must “ shuffle off this mortal coil,” just as the mould 
is broken away from the metal before it can be elevated from the 
ground. With this key we may proceed to the survey of the 
objects before us. In the foreground is the sower; in the middle 
space, on each side, are ploughmen, raising furrows for the recep¬ 
tion of the seed; the attention of him on the right side is called 


to what is going on in the distance, and there we find the antitype. 
The bell tolls for a funeral; the gate of the cemetery stands open 
to receive a procession of mourners, who are about to commit 
to the earth “the seed sown iu corruption.” By the help of 
this analysis we now discover, that what at first sight appeared 
to be irrelevant, is, nevertheless, perfectly reconcilable to the main 
design; that the tints which are scattered over the canvas are not 
out of keeping, but reflect and harmonize with each other, like 
the colours of the rainbow, by such imperceptible degrees, 
that though they elude the eye at the point where they blend 
together, yet at their extremities are well defined, weaving, ns it 
were, an uninterrupted tissue, at once variegated, luminous, and 
distinct, 

Qualis ab iinbre solet percussus solibus arcus 
Inticere ingenti longuin curvamine ccelum ; 

In quo diversi niteaut cum mille colores, 

Transitus ipse tamen spectantia lumina fallit, 

Usque adeo quod tangit idem est, taincu ultima distant. 

To mark the season of the year, in allusion to the autumn of 
human life, a tree is shedding “the sere, the yellow leaf," which 
strews the ground in the direction of that 6ad array. 


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8 



























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I 












































































































































































83 




NO. XXXII. 


Ah ! ’tis she ! The mother dear 
Sleeps upon her sable bier ! 

’Tis the teuder consort, torn 
From her husband’s arms forlorn; 
From the lovely brood she bare, 
On her bosom flowering fair. 


The metaphor drawn from the burial and resurrection of the 
dead, suggested by the sower, nicely rivets the chain by which the 
bell is once more attached through its offices to the lot of man. It 
is now tolling for a funeral. The same melancholy train which 
was lately seen indistinctly winding in the distance, now pro¬ 
minently occupies the foreground of the picture; but how much 
more is our interest raised when we find that “ the pilgrim on the 
latest way” is no other than the careful housewife—the tender 
mother whom we have admired and loved so long ! She has 
apparently sunk under accumulated misfortunes—the ruin of her 
husband, perhaps the loss of some of her children—to an un¬ 
timely grave. The church service concluded, the coffiu is borne 
to the burial-ground, followed by the widower and his motherless 
offspring. Among them we miss the little girl whose melancholy 
features we have already noticed (see No. XXX.); and it would seem, 
by a circumstance which will hereafter occur, that the artist, ever 
attentive to the progressive interest of his tale, has aggravated the 
distress of the present scene by the loss of a favourite child, whom 
we may suppose to have fallen a victim to a nervous temperament, 
and thus, perhaps, accelerated the death of her mother. But the 
most striking object is the chief mourner: his hat drawn deep 


over his forehead, his eyes rivetted to. the ground, heedless of 
all the anxious faces which are turned towards him—we can 
scarcely trace, through the deep indented furrows of grief and 
premature old age, a single feature of the man whom we lately 
saw, in all the pride and vanity of wealth, defyiug every reverse 
of fortune. Far different are his thoughts now: ruminating 
on his former impiety, to which he ascribes his present loss, the 
bitterest of all, and calling to mind the destitution of his little 
ones, he may be imagined to give vent to his remorse in the words 
of Mac Duff, 

My children too! 

They were all struck for thee— 

Nought that I am ! 

Not for their own demerits, but for mine. 

• 

The path over which the funeral moves winds among gravestones, 
in different stages of decay, towards the open grave in the distance; 
where, to keep up the typical allusion, the sower and the plough¬ 
man are still visible. The horizon is closed by the setting sun, 
which casts a glory round the crucifix elevated in front of the 
bier, illuminating the whole picture, and reminding us that dentil 
is swallowed up in the victory of the cross. 

































































































85 




NO. XXXIII. 


Cheerly through the green-wood now 
His homeward path the traveller holds ; 
And to their wonted stalls and folds 
Sleek beeves, with broad and open brow, 
And bleating weanlings throng. 


One episode succeeds another. This and the three following 
plates present various objects in different situations, descriptive 
of the close of an autumnal day. The idea by which these 
descriptions are combined with the general subject is this: the 
Master Founder, still discoursing with his labourers, tells them, 
that whilst the bell, now completed in the mould, must be 
allowed time to cool before it can be disengaged, evening is 
already come. lie exhorts his young men to enjoy the interval 
in some wholesome relaxation, or in attendance at evening prayer, 
lie himself, however, remains behind, and pursues awhile his 
meditations alone. The picture before us forms part of his 
soliloquy, and affords opportunity for the display of great skill 


in producing a rural scene, highly characteristic of the country 
where it is laid. The cattle returning from their pasture on 
the common lands belonging to some close or fortified town, is 
collected together in numbers, so naturally grouped, and so 
correctly delineated, that they compose altogether a pay sage 
worthy of a Bergliem or a Paul Potter. (See Preface.) It 
needs no comment to enhance the beauty of this picture, unless 
to remark the anxiety with which the main object is always 
kept in view. In the small section of a church-tower ou the 
right we observe a bell ringing for vespers. Phis memento is 
repeated in the three successive outlines. 
















































































































87 


§£@ 


«(5 


NO. XXXIV. 


Beneath its cumbrous load of grain 
Heavily reels the creaking wain, 

Whose sheaves, with motley garlands crowned, 
The jocund reapers dance around, 

And hail with harvest-song. 


The celebration of harvest-home affords little or no opportunity 
for the display of any picturesque novelty; the general character of 
rural mirth is common to all countries in every age : or if any 
distinctive features exist, they are to be traced to the intellectual, 
rather than the moral habits of a people, and develope themselves 
more or less in instinctive tastes and popular costumes. Both are 
here remarkable: the braided hair and bodices of the German 
women, and the jaunty caps and jackets of the men are not more 
characteristic of their personal appearance, than their passion for 
music and dancing is of their national propensities. 

The less graceful traits of conviviality are, much to the credit of 
the artist, rather qualified than caricatured—softened by distance, 
or altogether banished from the scene. We have little of the 
coarseness of Teniers, and nothing of the grimace of Hogarth or 
Ostade. Far be it from us to disparage either of these great masters, 
and least of all our own inimitable countryman, but grace, the 
especial attribute of Retzsch, belongs not to them. Here the cup 
and flagon, though liberally plied, arc unattended with riot; the 
maiden holding the garland is pledged by the rustic landlord at a 


becoming distance; and the tobacco pipe—so well is the chronology 
chosen—kept altogether out of view. (See Introduction to the 
Analysis.) But the band of music occupies, as it ought to do, a 
conspicuous place, and might, with equal propriety, have har¬ 
monized with a chorus of voices singing in parts, as accurately as 
at a studied concert in our country; here, however, it is confined to 
the accompaniment of a waltz, not indeed without exciting some 
disposition to gallantry of rather a boisterous kind: it is, however, 
happily contrasted by the sober, though lively deportment of the 
rest of the assembly. The execution of this outline is not inferior 
to its conception. On a superficial plane of about sixty-three 
inches, representing a perspective area of perhaps as many furlongs 
in circumference, room has been found for no less than fourteen 
distinct groups, in a great variety of attitudes, all nearly in contact 
with each other, yet perfectly well defined. This observation 
applies equally to many of the previous as well as subsequent 
numbers—a proof of masterly drawing; while the frequent inter¬ 
vention of quieter subjects shows no less skill in the ceaseless 
production of contrast and variety. 


*Sr8 





















































































































































































































NO. XXXV. 


Street and market-cross grow still; 
And, jarring on its hinges shrill, 
The city-gate is heard to close; 
And where yon social taper glows 
The calm home-dwellers meet. 


The description of eveniug is now varied, by shifting the scene 
to the interior of a city—not such as we islanders are accustomed 
to, who, happily less exposed to the terror of invasion, inhabit open 
towns, villages, or country mansions—but such as presents objects 
strange to all but our continental travellers. 

A broad open space, generally in the centre of some principal 
street, and ornamented by a statue or fountain, is surrounded by 
handsome buildings; the town-hall, and several churches, with here 
and there the image of a saint, are the most conspicuous: all is 
still: no signs of activity apparent, except in the orderly pre¬ 
parations for the approach of night. The watchman, with his 


dog and horn, on one side, and the night patrol on the other, are 
beginning their respective rounds: a sentinel mounts guard at the 
gate, which is flanked by turrets in the wall, and which the porter 
is about to bar. The shutters are fastened, far and near; and 
through a window, which an apprentice lad is in the act of closing, 
we observe a family party, conversing sociably by candle-light. 

In the foreground is an old physician on his way to a patient, 
cautiously conducted by his famulus, as he is called, that is, 
domestic, companion, aud medical assistant, all in one: he holds a 
lantern before his master, and by his trustworthy appearance seems 
to justify the confidence with which he is honoured. 
































































91 



NO. XXXVI. 


Gentle Peace ! sweet Harmony ! 

0 be this your sanctuary ! 

Hover, hover o’er this town ! 
Trampling march, or martial sally. 
Ne’er invade this tranquil valley. 


These words are the commencement of an eloquent and affecting 
invocation, doubtless suggested to the poet no less by his own 
experience of the horrors of war than by the train of ideas more 
immediately flowing from the present subject. He had been con¬ 
templating the blessings of a peaceful evening in a well-ordered 
city, and his reverence for the civil institutions of his country 
breaks out into this apostrophe, which he puts into the mouth of 
his Master Founder while meditating over Iris labours in the cool of 
the evening. Here, however, the soliloquy is transferred to another 
speaker, a creature of our artist’s own imagination. He figures 
to himself a hermit, the inhabitant of a cell on the summit of a 
mountain which overlooks the town and valley before us, as if 
alarmed by an ominous dream, throwing himself upon his knees, 
and with outstretched arms invoking the spirit of peace, whose 
flight he seems to deprecate. The introduction of this new 
interlocutor forms another episode, foreign to the subject-matter 
of the poem itself, yet exceedingly appropriate and accessary to its 
graphic illustration. To elevate the importance of this personage, 
he is made a prophet as well as an anchorite, realizing the romantic 
wish of our great epic poet, 


May my weary age 
Find out the peaceful hermitage, 

The hairy gown and mossy cell, 

Where I may sit aud rightly spell 
Of every star that heaven doth show, 

And every herb that sips the dew; 

Till old experience do attain 
To something like prophetic strain. 

This we collect from the hideous vision hovering over his head, of 
armies in the air, skeletons mounted upon antediluvian monsters, 
lighted by the torch of Alecto, and led on by the pale horse of 
the Apocalypse. An angel bearing the palm of peace flies before 
them, and casting a pitiful look upon the earth, seems to take a 
long farewell. The general contour and drapery of the principal 
figure remind us of some of Caravaggio’s old men, particularly in 
the ill-favoured delineation of age, with a minuteness visible in the 
turgid veins of the hands, and the knotty joints of the fingers— 
effects well contrasted with the angelic figure which, in grace, 
airiness, and beauty resembles the drawings of Raphael. 

n 2 


i 

1 














































































































































































NO. XXXVII. 


Woe to the land in whose still breast 
Sedition feeds the lurking flames ; 
Where, by no rule of right represt, 
The people self-dominion claims. 


A plot against the government, now ripe for explosion, 
justifies the apprehensions of the hermit, and forcibly and fearfully 
does the artist embody the hideous thought of rebellion in human 
shapes and features of the coarsest and most ferocious cast. 
The conspirators are assembled in a vault or cellar, for the better 
concealment of their treason. On^ of their demagogues mounts 
the table to harangue his confederates, and grasping his weapon, 
points to the equestrian statue of a king, which is seen at a 
distance through the grated window. A 3till more desperate ruffian 
opposite to him, vociferously responds to this appeal by holding 
up his dagger, and giving vent to a torrent of execrations; another 
seated at his feet, turns towards him with an air of encourage¬ 
ment, and insolently tramples upon a royal edict. The rest show 
their zeal by rudely seizing the arms which are brought in, and 
seem as if swearing to devote their lives to the conspiracy. It 


is observable that no fire-arms are introduced. (See Introduction to 
the Analysis.) The general expression of this picture is reckless 
cruelty, and insensate clamour, which here and there, however, is 
relieved by the presence of some aged persons of a graver character, 
whose thoughtful countenances betray doubt and misgiving. But 
the chief figure is very remarkable. To the brutal expression of 
his face and figure—a mixture of malignity and low cunning — is 
added an idiotical squint, as if to convey a censure upon that blind 
and degrading infatuation which subjects a mighty people to the 
control of the lowest and most ignorant agitators. Ilis whole 
figure is a personification of jacobinism, a villainous compound of 
the .radical and the carmngnol, 

Condorcet filtered through the dregs of Payne. 
















































































































































































95 


i S 

HI 


5 5 
t 5 


NO. XXXVIIT. 


Then, fiercely swung with frenzied hand, 
To arms the peace-devoted hell 
Sounds an alarm, and frights the land, 

III tuned to war’s discordant yell. 




The threatened insurrection has at last broken out in all the 
violence of a sanguinary massacre. The scene of this catastrophe 
is the open place in front of the town-hall: part of the mob is 
employed in hurling a kingly statue from its pedestal, part in 
desecrating the churches, and murdering the priests ; the state 
officers and magistrates, surprised at their different departments, 
are made prisoners, thrown from the windows, or seen making 
their escape over the roofs of houses; some, having taken arms, 
are beat down and assassinated, together with the municipal guard; 
others are poignarded by infuriated women, or hang suspended to 
the lamp-posts. There is no appearance of fire-arms on either side. 
At a distance on the left, a company of spearmen is sallying through 
the gateway of the arsenal, and immediately under is a man armed 
with a cross-bow. (See Introduction to the Analysis.) A flight of 
carrion crows has displaced the peaceable stork, and settling on the 
gablesand pinnacles of the houses, clamour for their expected prey. 
To comprise all this variety of incidents, the point of sight has 
been necessarily taken from a very elevated position; this creates the 


uupleasing effect of looking down upon objects fore-shortened, and 
diminished to an almost insignificant size. This, as Mr. Retzsch 
tells us, is done intentionally, to avoid fatiguing his spectators by a 
repetition of plates, which would otherwise have been necessary for 
the developement of his subject. 

The expedient answers the purpose in view: but we are far less 
grateful to the distinguished artist for his consideration of our 
patience than we should have been by the exercise of his more 
legitimate skill, had he thought fit to multiply specimens, of which 
we are never tired. What an opportunity would it have afforded for 
the display of his fine architectural drawing, had he given us the 
facade, instead of the roof, of his ancient town-hall ! And how 
much more should we have been delighted by the marked expression 
of larger masses, than by the somewhat map-like effect of so many 
diminutive lines scattered over so large a surface ! An attempt of 
this kind has been made by a very deserving and popular English 
painter, in treating subjects of a like comprehensive nature, which, 


ns 


as® 

















96 



however admirable for tlieir manual execution, appear to have been 
conceived on mistaken principles of art. It is like applying to the 
eye the diminishing instead of the magnifying lens of a telescope, 
and the result is, a representation of space and atmosphere , rather 
than of the action meant to be described —a portrait of infinity. 

The greatest masters have exactly reversed this principle. Raphael, 
for example, in his Cartoons, limits his subject to the unity of some 
particular action, and then represents it generally by one or more 
commanding groups, with the predominant figure placed in some 
conspicuous point of view; to these groups he allots the largest 
portion, perhaps two-thirds of the whole picture, compressing all 
the collateral details into a very moderate compass. Suppose him, 
on the contrary, to have treated such a subject as Paul preaching 
at Athens, on a scale of perspective infinitely disproportioned to 





the room occupied by the action, what would the consequence 
have been ? An interminable view of Attica, taken perhaps from 
the summit of the Acropolis, looking down upon the Hill of Mars, 
with all its temples, monuments, and statues; including the 
apostle and his disciples, dwindled into pigmies—beyond which we 
should have had a chart of the Archipelago, with its islands in the 
distance, and the intermediate space dotted with little models of 
the Munychia and the Pirseeus, 

The fishermen 

Like mice, and the tall anchoring bark, 

Diminished to her cock, her cock a buoy. 

But we have travelled beyond our limits, and must contract our 
own horison. 


























































































































































































NO. XXXIX. 


Ply the pulley, stretch the rope, 
And to the realms of vocal air 
Heave we the bell! 


The work, now completed, issues, as the poet says, like a 
metallic kernel from its shell, or a planet from the coil of parting 
clouds, to feed the eye and glad the heart of all beholders. The 
master, ever assiduous at his business, is now carefully directing 
the labourers above, who have fastened the bell to the crane by 
which it is to be hoisted to the belfry: one of them is ascending 
the ladder to bear his orders to the rest. 

The groups on either side consist of notable persons, who are 
admitted to a nearer view of this masterpiece of his art. They are 
of different degrees. On the right of the picture is a prince or 
nobleman, the patron of the district, with his family; on the left, 
the burgomaster and other city officers. This denotes the im¬ 
portance of the spectacle; while the multitude may be supposed 
to be waiting without, impatient for a sight to be hailed with 
universal acclamation. Meantime we have now leisure to examine 


more closely the various decorations, most of which have already 
been emblematically sketched, as images floating in the poet’s 
mind, and are now exhibited in reality. In addition to these a 
segment of the shield, bearing the civic arms, is presented to view; 
and the motto which Schiller has prefixed to his poem runs 
round the circumference—“ Vivos voco, morluos plango, fulmiua 
frango,” a monastic rhyme, which may be thus almost literally 
translated— 

I call the quick ; the (lead bewail; 

And the dread lightning countervail. 

The ornamental loop at the top of the bell, by which it is hooked 
to the pulley, is technically called the ear, in German the helmet. 
The foreground is skilfully broken by the scattered fragments of 
the mould, a portion of the scaffolding, and the tools, which lie in 
disorder. 


o 






















































































































































































































































































































99 



Joy to this city ! peace and weal! 
Be this its first and foremost peal. 


Such is the concluding wish of the lay; and what a multitude 
of images have these few words conjured up! 

As thick and numberless 
As the gay motes that people the sunbeams. 

Thus we are once more hurried from scene to scene, in medias 
res baud secus ac notas, and unexpectedly made spectators of a 
popular solemnity, the cause of which is not immediately obvious. 
But, if we compare this holiday appearance with the uproar lately 
described, we begin to perceive the connection of one with the 
other. The delusion of the public mind has past away, and order 
now succeeds to anarchy. The latter was amply suggested by the 
poet—the former left to futurity, a thing still to be prayed for. 
Schiller wrote in the midst of the revolutionary war; his illustrator 
happily pursues the sequel to an epoch of profound peace, and 
thus anticipating the words which seasonably closed the subject, 
as it then stood, has reserved another passage for the termination 
of his outlines, and, as we shall see, more applicable to the present 
state of things. The execution of this idea is equal to its con¬ 


ception. The bell, now engaged in one of its most auspicious 
duties, calls together the authorities of the city lately in a state of 
insurrection, to a solemn thanksgiving for the return of peace. 
Through a long line of halberdiers they are proceeding to the 
cathedral. The head of the procession has already penetrated into 
the chancel. We might almost fancy it in real motion, so correct 
is the perspective from one end to the other, as far as the line is 
visible. The priests are followed by a train of young women, with 
flowing hair, crowned with garlands, and bearing palm-branches: 
next march the elders of the city, in their ermine robes and chains; 
and the pomp, not yet closed, is intercepted from our view by the 
projecting corner of the buildings on the left. From that point, to 
the distant objects in the centre, the prospect is varied by groups, 
gradually diminishing; some looking down from windows, others 
collected in the streets, a-foot or on horseback. The architecture 
and general disposition of the dwellings bring back many pleasing 
recollections to the mind of the traveller: and it is remarkable, 
that of the four pictures which represent processions all are 
equally striking, and none alike. 

o 2 








































































































































































































































































































101 





NO. XLI. 


if:® 

i 


Aloft “ in pride of place,” and far 
O’er earth’s low dwellings, shall it rise ; 
"With the red bolt, and rolling star, 
Co-tenant of the boundless skies. 


In one of the earlier numbers we have seen an elevation repre¬ 
senting a church-tower, with its belfry, such as might be supposed 
to have been at that time faintly shadowed, like first thought, in 
the poet’s mind. It now stands in a substantial form before us, 
containing the bell itself, towering amid the clouds, and looking 
down upon the dwellings of men, which lie niauy a fathom below 
at its base, enveloped in the shades of night. The stars of heaven 
are beaming upon it, and the lightnings, in allusion to a portion of 
the legend lately quoted, playing about its pinnacles. To raise 
the principal object to this conspicuous point of view it was 
necessary to abridge the rest: all we see is the upper portion 
of the building, from the highest turret down to part of the pedi¬ 
ment, which forms the frontispiece of the cathedral. The perfect, 
or equilateral arch, with its spandrels, crockets, and corbels, and 
above all, the circular rose du portail, denote the second era of 
pointed architecture, which prevailed from the middle of the twelfth 
to about the end of the fifteenth century. This epoch it is necessary 
to bear in mind, because it partly serves to ascertain the date which, 
it will be remembered, has been assumed for the costume and other 
particulars belonging to these outlines. We proceed now to notice 


a new set of symbolical devices, which form the relievoes ot this 
ecclesiastical structure. 

The triangular pediment at the bottom is adorned with the 
representation of the day of judgment. On the right and left, 
towards the centre, two archangels are soundiug their trumpets, 
which awake the dead on either side; those on the right to the 
resurrection of the just made perfect, those on the left to the 
resurrection of condemnation. In the centre Michael and Lucifer 
are contending for the soul of man, which is symbolized by the 
figure of Psyche, and upon which the beams of reconciled Justice 
are streaming from above. In front of the topmost turret, on a 
pedestal which surmounts the belfry, stands the statue ot the 
Redeemer; at his feet are angels in adoration; in his haud is the 
standard of victory. 

The whole conveys this meaning—that through the death ot the 
cross life and immortality are brought to light by Ilim to whom all 
dominion is given. 


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Vr-v© 


































































103 


NO. XLII. 


A voice, as of the host on high, 
That, shrined in every starry sphere, 
Hosannah ! to their Maker cry, 

And lead in dance the circling year. 


The same allegory of the Seasons which made part of the 
prologue or frontispiece to these outlines now returns at the close 
of the cycle. 

Time has fulfilled its destined round, and hastes to bring this 
history, like every other earthly thing, to a conclusion. In com¬ 
paring the present group with the first of the series, we find not only 
that the Seasons have dismissed their allegorical companions, who 
represented the changes and chances of mortal life, but that they 
themselves present rather a different appearance. In the former 
plate they wore a sort of radiated coronet ; here, from their re¬ 
spective attributes, they seem more directly to embody the abstract 
ideas of spring, summer, autumn, and winter, the latter being dis¬ 
tinguished by ample drapery blown about by the winds. This 
difference may be accounted for by the ambiguity with which these 
personages are mentioned in heathen mythology : by the Latin 
poets they are simply called by the names here translated into 


English; but the Greeks reduce their number generally to three, 
and bestow upon them a lofty genealogy, and high-sounding names. 
According to some they are the daughters of Jupiter and Themis, 
and named Eunomia, Dice, and Irene; this accounts for their 
coronets. Others mention only two, Carpo and Thalote. 

Our artist, therefore, is well warranted in assigning to them 
whichever number and character best suit his purpose; and he 
appears to have used his option not without good reason and 
knowledge of the subject: for iu the former instance, where the 
seasons are joined hand in hand with Peace and Discord, Mirth and 
Sorrow, he attributes to them their proper moral association with 
those impersonated i,-alums, thus se orally alluding to their names, 
which he borrows, though ue mentions them not in his remarks, 
from the Theogouy of Hesiod; whereas, in this latter instance, 
where they are no longer ostensibly coupled with these associates, 
and seem more immediately relui d to time iu its physical 


!» 





















104 


a ■ . -■ ---- - - 

effects upon the universe, he confers upon them the mere 
temporal names and attributes more usually assigned to them. 
By this means he not only adheres more closely to the meaning of 
Schiller, hut cleverly introduces some novelties of his own. Thus 
the signs of the Zodiac, over which the Seasons are hovering, or in 
whose orbit, rather, they appear to revolve, allude to the imaginary 
music of the spheres, and beautifully elucidate a passage in the 
lay, which it seems has excited some criticism. (See the motto 


to this number, and the note at the end of the volume referring 
to p. 15. 

The colossal head of Time, looking down upon the globe, with 
hair and beard streaming through an infinity of space, is farther 
characterized as the origin and end of all things by the emblem of 
a star springing into existence on his right hand; and on his left, 
by that of a world in flames. 




















\ 




























































NO. XLIII. 


And as the mightiest sound that thrills 
The throbbing ear dissolves away, 

So may it teach us, all that fills 
This earthly round must needs decay. 


These -words, though they occur a little earlier in the lay, have 
been discreetly reserved for the last impressive picture which closes 
the history of the bell; nor could they have been more feelingly 
applied than to the final dissolution of the object from which the 
poem derives its title. Age after age must notv be supposed to 
have past away since the formation of the bell; and many another 
generation still appears to have witnessed its gradual decay since it 
fell from its lofty station to moulder among the ruins where it now 
lies low. A section only of its circumference is visible, and that 
so deeply imbedded in the soil, so overgrown with sedges in the 
swampy ground, so shattered and defaced, that we can scarcely 
recognise it for the same, except by some faint traces of the 
ornaments which were once its pride. Among them is one not 
yet noticed, the medallion of its ingenious founder, who has 
so long and eloquently amused us by descanting on its praise. 
All the purposes of which he boasted in its monastic inscription 
have long been at an end: its chief attribute, “the concord of 
sweet sounds,” is no more — a crack, extending through the 
centre to the rim, has annulled its very name, and silenced its 
harmony for ever. 


Wherever we turn our eyes they encounter nought but ruin and 
desolation. The whole country has become a desert. The oak, 
which had defied a century of storms and tempests, now withered 
and hollow with age, lies prostrate to the last faint breeze which 
has consummated its fall. The feudal castle which crowned the 
hill, the town, the cathedral itself, the awe and wonder of innu¬ 
merable generations, lies level with the ground, and scarcely 
redeems from oblivion the site whereon it stood, by the relics of 
its by-gone glory. Still more solemnly to impress upon our minds 
the transitory nature of all worldly objects, we are reminded not 
only of that hereafter, when 

The great globe itself, 

Yea, all that it inherits, shall dissolve, ' 

but when time itself shall be no more ! 

These awful truths are conveyed by two distinct symbols: on the 
left is the fragment of a pillar, whose capital rests upon a globe 
supported on the shoulders of Atlas, himself a ruin; on the right 
is the effigy of Saturn, the mythological personification of Time: 



















106 



the point of his destructive scythe is broken, and his own 
devouring jaws corroded and defaced—etiam periere ruinae. The 
very monuments of the dead, frail guardians of those who have 
long mouldered into dust, have survived only to undergo a more 
tardy dissolution. But there is one among them which strikingly 
arrests our attention, and is made the vehicle of a fine moral. It is 
the monument of a woman with an infant in her arms, and a girl, 
seemingly about eight years old, at her side. 

In the mother we cannot fail to recognise the image of the 
matron, upon whose worth we have formerly dwelled with so much 
interest, and whose untimely death has already been the theme of 
our sorrow. She may be supposed to have died in child-birth of 
the babe she holds to her bosom: the elder child is the same whose 
expressive countenance was remarked among the group collected 
together after the memorable fire. We jnissed her at the funeral, 
and our apprehensions are now confirmed that she preceded her 
mother to the grave. But where is the father ? Is there no 
memorial of him who boasted that his fame should endure for 



ever ? We took leave of him at the burial—we searched for him 
among the defenders of his country at the insurrection, and again 
among her honourable men engaged in thanksgiving at the return 
of peace. In vain ! The worldly man was absent, or had perished 
in the service of Mammon. Once we saw him flourishing like a 
green bay tree; we seek him now, but his place cannot be found. 
He is gone, and all his thoughts have perished! Not so the memory 
of the righteous. The cherished traces of his virtuous unpretending 
wife and innocent children are discernible to the last; their fame 
blossoms even in the valley of the shadow of death; and the 
medallion of the pious craftsman engraved upon the bell, survives 
the ruins of his handiwork, and is made coeval with the very end 
of time. 

With this affecting lesson we close the Analysis, and trust that 
the moments bestowed upon it have not past away without leaving 
behind them some salutary impressions, however mingled with 
others of a more trivial nature. 




















With Midas ear,’’ iye. 


See Preface. 


Milton, in the sonnet addressed to Henry Lawes, who set to music the songs 
in Comus, expresses his disgust at the false emphasis given by contemporary 
composers to words adapted to their airs. This is a fault from which some of 
the adapters of our age are not exempt. To say nothing of many examples in 
our English version of Haydn’s “ Creation,” it is remarkable with what rapture 
our dilettanti applaud the clumsy adaptation of English words to Italian or 
German music, where, with equal violence to both, and with no less injustice to 
our singers, whether in an opera by Bellini, or an oratorio by Spohr, a number 
of metrical feet, no matter whether tony or short, are distorted into an unmeaning 
combination with as many notes of unequal measure, in defiance of all prosody 
or expression. It is not by any means intended by this observation to contract 
the licence, either of poetry or music, in deviating occasionally from the ordinary 
accent, so as to diversify the intonation of one or the other : as, for example, 
in Handel’s beautiful opening to “Israel in /Egypt,” “Sing ye unto the Lord, 
for he hath triumphed gloriously;” for this is only analogous to the frequent 
liberties taken by our great epic poet himself, never, however, without reference 
to classical authority ; such as in the word cmpy'rcal or empyreal, with the accent 
sometimes upon the penultimate ; but the practice of arbitrary and unauthorized 
accentuation in music, which is equivalent to false quantities in verse, can never 
be too strongly deprecated. 


107 


T E S. 


Page 1. 

“ Lo the mould,” Sfc. 

There are two moulds, the outer and the inner, which arc constructed by 
means of two pairs of compasses, thus : a hole is dug in the ground, in the centre 
of which a stake is driven; at the top of this is an iron peg, with a pivot. The 
compasses for the inner mould are made to turn upon this pivot, describing a 
circle, beyond which a larger one is struck by the compasses for the outer mould : 
the space between the stake and the outer circle is then built up in brick work, 
leaving a hollow in the centre for the admission of fuel. This hollow is after¬ 
wards filled up with fine clay, in such a manner that the curve of the compasses 
touches the clay in every’ direction : the clay is then baked, and becomes the 
inner mould, which is also called the core. The outer mould (tic 5orm), of 
which we are now speaking, is then formed, also of fine clay. This outer model 
is then baked, and, when cooled, the different ornaments, previously modelled in 
wax, are fixed to its surface. The shell, or thin covering of this outer mould, is 
then constructed of clay fine enough to sheath and take the impression of the wax 
ornaments: the latter arc then melted away, and the shell thickened with 
additional layers of coarser clay, and the whole outer mould braced with iron 
hoops. Tliis is afterwards lifted out of the pit by a windlass, and well greased, 
to prevent adhesion, and then replaced. The empty space between the two 
moulds is then filled with the raw bell-metal. This consists of copper, zinc, and 
tin, to which is added potash, in the proportion of about a pound to every ten 

p 2 


























108 


hundred weight of metal. In twelve hours it is in a state of fusion, which is 
indicated by the conduit pipes assuming a brown colour. The apertures of these 
pipes are represented in the Outlines, Nos. II. and XXVIII. An iron rod is then 
plunged into the smelted mixture, which, if equally glazed over, proves the 
metal to be sufficiently fused. It is necessary also to ascertain whether the 
bell-metal is mixed in proper proportions. This is done by pouring a little into a 
hollow stone, which, wTien cold, is broken with a hammer: if the surface of this 
fragment is quite smooth, then there is too much tin; but if very rough or 
indented, not enough. See Outline No. XXVIII. 

The furnace consists of two parts—the lower chamber for the metal, the upper 
for the chimney. There are five apertures; that with an iron door, through 
which the plates of raw metal are thrown; another, through which the flame 
strikes into the furnace, and is reverberated into the chimney; a third, closed 
with a stopple, which being removed, the fused metal flows through a small 
gutter into the space between the two moulds : the two remaining apertures 
are the pipes already mentioned. These last are to let out the smoke caused by 
the closure of the chimney at the top, after the fuel has been introduced : this 
closure causes the flame to strike inwards against the metal. 

For a more ample description of the process of bell-founding, see Rees’s 
Cyclopaedia. 


Page 2. 

“ The brazen mouth ,” Sfc. 

So Shakspere, King John, act ii. scene 5 : 

If the midnight bell 

Did with his iron tongue and brazen mouth 
Sound one unto the drowsy race of night. 


Page 3. 

“ From maiden play to man’s employ&fc. 

55om €D?dbcf>cn retfjt ftcf> ftotj ter .SInabe. Literally, The boy proudly tears 
himself away from the maiden; i. e. the maidenly character, the society and 


habits of the inmates of his nursery—his sisters, and other female associates. No 
excuse is made for the laxity of this translation; on the contrary, it is noticed 
only as one of those paraphrastic expedients which, however abhorrent to the 
theory of those uncompromising critics who stickle for literal translation, and 
deem every deviation from it a sacrifice of meaning to metre, is recommended 
as facilitating the version of idioms often too hastily pronounced untranslatable. 
See Preface. 

Page 4. 

“ Sweet the virgin-hlossoms play.” 

The line in the original, viz. ©piclt tor jungfeauliefye ilranj, is a deviation 
from the general trochaic metre, being in measure the same as the last hemistich 
of a Greek or Latin pentameter, and might have been translated thus, 

Sweetly the virgin-buds play. 

But the translator has continued the trochees without this break, in compliance 
with the fastidiousness, or rather, ignorance of the English ear, which eschews 
pentameters , for much the same reason that musical amateurs of the old school 
affect to ridicule the prevailing more learned counterpoint—because they do not 
understand it. It is, however, but fair to point out, that the line in the original 
purposely breaks the metre, in order to describe the fluttering of a wreath of 
flowers, and is an exemplification of the method by which Schiller occasionally 
makes the sound an echo to the sense. The line in the original beautifully 
describes the fluttering of the wreath of flowers worn by the bride. If it fails of 
that effect in the translation the reader may substitute this line, 

The virgin-blossoms sweetly play, 
which will restore the uniformity of the iambic rhythm. 


Page 5. 

“ And the father exultingly,” Zfc. 

It has been observed in the Preface, that Schiller generally uses the iambic 
measure in those strophes which contain the moral, as distinguished from the 
technical parts of this poem. The above is one of several exceptions. The 
















metre here is dactylic, the same as that which so beautifully animates the words 
and music of Sir Walter Scott’s spirited song of Roderic Mac Alpin. This is one 
of the metres ridiculed in the Anti-Jacobin Review; and we are obliged to Sir 
Walter for having redeemed it from the merciless ban under which it laboured in 
Southey’s earlier days. It may fairly be questioned whether the criticism was 
ever founded upon any better reason than that our ear had been hitherto un¬ 
accustomed to almost any other than the Greek iambus and trochee, the usual 
measure of English heroic and lyric verse: but there must have been a time 
when these also were first naturalised, and by this time even the “ needy knife- 
grinder” himself has become so familiar to us, that we are reconciled at last to 
the chaunt with which he accompanies the melodious grating of his wheel, and 
acknowledge it to he no other than the sapphic stanza, the music of the tenth 
Muse. 


Page 6. 

“ I I is stacks,’’ Sfc. 

Set ‘Pfoftcn rogcntc ©miinc. Literally, The projecting timbers of the posts. 
The stacks in a German farm-yard are not constructed like ours, hut built round 
a central post or pole, the top of which juts out (raget) considerably beyond 
the hay or sheaves of coni which they support, and present a very striking 
feature in every landscape along the Rhine and throughout the Netherlands. 


Page 6. 

“ The well-grained metal 
Cleft in twain," Sfc. 

It has been explained in a previous note, that one of the tests to which the 
bell-metal is exposed when in a state of fusion, is to collect a portion of it, and, 
when cold, to break and examine the surface of the fragment. The passage of 
which the above is a translation is this, Sd)cn gejarfet ift tcc ©cud)— The frag¬ 
ment is fairly indented; neither too rough nor too smooth. It is therefore the grain 
of the metal which is here concerned; a reference to which presents a more 
intelligible meaning than if the passage had been more literally translated. 


Page 7. 


“ Fur all the elements, arrayed,” bfc. 

©enn tic Stcmente Ijaitcn 
©ag ©c&itb’ tcc Sftenfdjcnljant'. 

Literally, For the elements hate the work of men’s hands. But the passage 
has been amplified, more clearly to mark its allusion to a metaphor in the 
Agamemnon of .Eschylus, where the herald Talthybius gives an account of the 
shipwreck, line 650. 

ZvvSip.aaav yap, bvres f^fllcrToi to trpiv 
Uvp Kai BaKatraa, xat ra 7ncrr’ eSe^ar^v 
<P6e ipivre tov Sucttitov Apye\2iv mparov. 

Milton alludes to this passage in Paradise Regained, Book IV. 

Fire with water 
In ruin reconciled. 

And it is thus rendered by the late John Symmons, in his learned and spirited 
translation of the Agamemnon, 8vo, London, 1824, 

Elements 

Before most hostile, joined in league together 
To wreck us, fire and water. 


Page 7. 

“ Every gift is from on high." 

This and the last line of the first strophe obviously allude to the 1st Epistle 
of St. James, chapter i. verse 17. “Every good gift and every perfect gift is 
from above, and comcth down from the Father of lights.” 


Page 9. 

“ IT hat \f ore or clay," §c. 

The danger to be apprehended at the moment of ensting is, lest some nccident 
should have happened in the interior of the work, cither from the improper 

















110 



mixture of the hell-metal, which causes what are technically termed flaws and 
pores, or from some mismanagement in heating the furnace, or from the faulty 
construction of the moulds. In any of these cases the metal either takes a false 
direction, and streams out of the various apertures, or bursts the model. This is 
technically called bolting. The operation of knocking the stopple out is often 
attended with great loss of life and property. 


Page 13. 

“ Swing the hammer, swing, 

Till the splinters spring.” 

Literally, Till the mantle spring. But this would not have been intelligible; 
because, though Sfflantcl in German means, in its primary sense, the same as in 
English, it has also a secondary one, which is technically used for what our bell- 
founders call “ the motherpiece,” a word unmanageable in verse. In order to 
compensate for the loss of the metaphor in one place, it is here restored in 
another, thus—■ 

Ere it rise, th’ unmantled bell, 

Must cast off its shattered shell. 


Page 14. 

“Freedom and equality'' 

Liberte et egalite ! the constant cry during the French Revolution of 1791-3. 
The halls here alluded to are not halls of justice, council halls, &c., but “ les 
halles,” as they are called at Paris; those covered markets which have given 
their name to “ les dames des halles,” those ferocious women, poissardes and 
others, who earned an odious celebrity during the massacres in the time of 
Robespierre, and who now claim the privilege of presenting a bouquet at the 
accouchements of their Royal Highnesses the Princesses of the Sovereign House 
of Orleans. Monsieur Dupre, the author of Lexicographia Neologica Gallica, 
under the words “ egalite” and “liberte,” defines them severally at considerable 
length, quoting the Declaration of the Rights of Man by the National Assembly, 
presented to Louis XVI. on the 3rd of September, 1791. See pp. 97 and 163, 
8vo. 1801. 




Page 14. 

“ Burns to ashes all the land." 

In his note upon this passage we are obliged to Mr. Klaur-Klatowski for a 
very pretty little fable, of which the following is a free translation, or rather 
parody, where nothing but the thought is attempted to be preserved. 

One night a monkey fired a wood 
Where old majestic cedars stood, 

The glory of all monkey-land. 

“ Was e’er,” cried he, “ a sight so grand ? 

“ Come, brothers ! come ! I’ve found the way 
“ How to turn midnight into day.” 

Up came his brethren, great and small, 

Mowing and chattering one and all: 

“ Long life to brother Jocko ! He’s 
“ The patriot of our cedar trees. 

“ ’Tis he enlightens all the nation : 

“ Hurrah! reform ! and conflagration !” 


Page 15. 

“ Round the helm a blaze,” fyc. 

The piece which surmounts the bell like a cap or helmet, is in English 
technically called the ear : it terminates in a loop attached to a chain, by which 
it is fastened to a beam in the belfry; at the other extremity is a ring, which is 
inserted, through a hole at the top, into the hollow of the bell, and holds the 
tongue or clapper. The hole is then soldered up. The brim is the lower portion 
of the circle of the bell—in German, bet SRuttb/ the mouth—being the immediate 
vehicle of sound. 


Page 15. 

“ The christening.” 


The custom of christening bells is very ancient, but it appears to be a ceremony 
distinct from baptism, a charge which has been sometimes made against Roman 















Catholics, and which they repel, apparently upon sufficient grounds. They allow, 
however, that they bless their bells, as they do all other church utensils, and 
that they bestow names upon them in token of consecration to their saints. 
This practice was prohibited in a capitular of Charlemagne, as early as a. d. 789. 
Notwithstanding which it was still continued, even among the Protestants ; 
though with the latter it forms no part of religious ceremony. A name is given, 
as in this instance, by the Master Bell-founder, unattended hv any episcopal 
benediction, but not without much festivity among the laity. 


Page 15. 

“ And lead in dance the circling year." 

Mr. Klaur-Klatowski, in his note upon this passage, says, “ The epithet 
fccfciinstc,” encircled with a garland, or wreathed, “has been pointed out by 
some German critics as a blemish in this poem, for not having any intelligible 
meaning. Schiller, however, has always been too careful in the choice of lus 
epithets to allow of such a supposition.” So far there is no question ; but it 
may be doubted whether the Professor’s hypothesis, ingenious as it is, may he 
assumed as the proper plea for the poet’s justification. “ To me,” he continues, 
“ it is clear that the words faS t’cfranjtc 3a(jc mean the zodiac,” &c. Mr. 
Retzsch, by introducing that symbol in the sketch which illustrates this passage 
{see No. XLII. of the Analysis), appears to be of the same opinion. It is one 
which certainly deserves attention. Another solution of the difficulty is here 
submitted, not altogether at variance with the above, but rather as a sort of 
corollary. By a figure of speech which grammarians call hvpallage, scarcely, if 
at all, known to modem language, but of very frequent occurrence in the Greek 
classics, an epithet strictly belonging to one noun is often transferred to another. 
Thus, for example, in the Agamemnon, line 157, Schiitz’s edition, 

Nus fur TtKTova avfi- 
<pirrov ou Suaovopa, 

The epithet aifirpurov (consanguineous) is transferred by hvpallage from vuniwv 
to TtKTova. Again in Hyppolitus, line (17, 

Na/eu fwaTf'ptlav av\av, 

which, however, is a disputed passage; but in the Hercules furens we have 
KaWliratSa art<pavov, an expression very analagous to fafl t'cTciinjrc 3afir ( and 


possibly may have suggested it: for the epithet KaWUaCSa (having beautiful 
children), strictly applicable to a mother or to a country, is there transferred to 
< TTe<pavov , the wreath with which the mother having beautiful children is 
crowned, according to the scriptural metaphor,as in Proverbs xvii. 6, “ Children’s 
children are the crown of old men.” Now this, if literally translated, would he 
“ a wreath bearing beautiful children,” instead of “ a wreath which crowns the 
mother bearing beautiful children.” In like manner fas (’cfranjtc Safa - would 
be “ the encircled year,” instead of the earth which is encircled by the year, 
whether in the figurative form of the zodiac, or allegorically by the seasons in 
their revolving course. The latter is the sense in which the passage is here 
translated, turning the past participle into the present. The difficulty, then, 
appears to have arisen from the learned poet having, perhaps too adventurously, 
used a figure of speech familiar to himself, but not generally known cither to the 
German or English language. In the latter it would have been quite unin¬ 
telligible, and is therefore not attempted, according to the precept of Horace : 

Qux 

Desperas tractata nitescere posse relinquas. 

Page 16. 

“ It swings ! it roars ! " 

So Milton, in the Penseroso, 

Swinging slow with solemn roar. 

Page 19. 

“ Two German Emperors—John the Blind, King of Bohemia." 

Otho IV., Duke of Saxony, of the house of Brunswick, at the instigation of Pope 
Innocent III., rose in opposition to Frederick II., son of the Emperor Henry VI., 
and grandson of the famous Barbarossa. This Otho, who had been crowned 
King of the Romans, was afterwards excommunicated and deposed by the 
same Pope, fled to England, and ultimately died in Brunswick, 1218. Frederick, 
meanwhile, was content to receive the imperial crown from Pope llonorious, but 
was in turn excommunicated by his successor, Pope Gregor)' IX., and ngain by 
Innocent IV. A long and desolating war ensued, with various success, during 























112 


--— - m .. 

as 

which Frederick II. died, and Henry VII. was elected Emperor, 1308. John, 
the son of the latter, married the sister of Winceslaus VI., King of Bohemia, at 
that time a fief of the empire, and, on failure of male issue in the direct line, suc¬ 
ceeded, by election, to that crown in 1310. Meantime, the imperial crown of 
Germany was contested by two rival pretenders, the descendants of the above- 
named Otho IV. John, as vassal and hereditary cupbearer, refused to do homage 
to either, and having become blind, resigned his crown, according to the laws of 
the kingdom, to his son Charles, proceeded to France as auxiliary to Philip VI. 
against the English, and was slain by Edward the Black Prince at the battle 
of Cressy, on Saturday the 26th of August, 1346. 

Page 77. 

“Reserved for more prominent situations hereafter.” 

Ut pictura poesis. Mr. Retzsch seems to be well aware of the Horatian 
maxim applied to dramatic poetry, in the Epistola ad Pisones— 

Pleraque deferet et prasens in tempus omittet. 


Page 79. 

“ The fate of that lovely child.” 

The beauty here delineated is of that fearful and ominous kind which reminds 
us of a striking passage in Tieck’s Life of Novalis, where he describes Sophia 
while yet a child: “ There is sometimes,” he says, “ an expression imprinted on 
the features of children which conveys an idea of something supernatural, and 
which, from the clear and almost transparent complexion that accompanies it, 
creates an apprehension that it is a tissue too tender and finely spun for this life; 
that it is either death or immortality that looks out so significantly from those 



glistening eyes; and too often does a rapid wasting away convert our prophetic 
fear into sad reality.” All, however, which is here said is mere conjecture. In 
Mr.Retzsch’s own “ Remarks” there is no stated intention to excite any exclusive 
interest for this child; yet in the last number of the Outlines there appears to be 
internal evidence to confirm our hypothesis. The subject will be again alluded 
to at the close of the Analysis. 


Page 95. 

“ An attempt of this hind,” 8fc. 

One word of apology to the able painter to whom we are obliged for his 
delineation of the fall of Babylon, and other similar specimens of his pencil. 
Nothing is here advanced in disparagement of his acknowledged talents; they 
have earned for him, both here and abroad, a just and merited celebrity. Every 
work, to be rightly appreciated, must be judged according to the aim proposed. 
That of Mr. Martin has obviously been to create an idea of immensity of space; 
and he has succeeded in a very striking manner. The history seems to have been 
a secondary object. The only question meant to be submitted is, whether the 
application of equal talent to another and a more legitimate object might not have 
produced equally striking effects of another kind, and upon better established 
principles of art. But, after all, 

Pictoribus atque poetis 
Quidlibet audendi semper fuit aequa potestas. 

Page 106. 

“ The monument of a woman,” 8fc. 

The reader will now decide whether the conjecture alluded to in a foregoing 
note is not confirmed by the circumstances here noticed. 


THE END. 



tONDONl PRINTED BY D. BATTEN, CLAPHAM. 





















































































































































































































































































































































































































